Honor
by HaloFin17
Summary: Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!
1. Prologue

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Well, here it is: the start of the sequel to "Weakness" that I've been wanting to write ever since I finished it on Christmas Day, 2007. Yes, "Strength" still happened, and it's still very important, serving as a sort of bridge between the two longer fics. But this is the sequel I've really been wanting to do all along. The same extended Author's Note at the beginning of "Weakness" also applies here, providing the details for this obscure crossover reality I've constructed. Please reference that if you're new to these fics, or feel free to PM me with any other questions. An additional note, however, is that I've determined that the time setting for this series is about 1600 Second Age, by Middle Earth's calendar. So wish me luck, as I still have a ton of stuff to work out here, and I do hope you enjoy it!

**Prologue**

_"Their eyes beheld first of all things the stars of heaven. Therefore they have ever loved the starlight."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

Waves. Waves. More waves. A whisper of breeze. The faint cry of a gull overhead. How long since he had heard them? How long since he had "heard" anything at all?

He felt cold and wet, and the damp sand was coarse like burlap beneath him. The same breath of air he had heard earlier felt cool in its caress against his cheek. How long since he had "felt" at all?

He was exhausted – too exhausted to move – yet his left hand grasped reflexively at the sand, as though groping for something it had just lost and fully expected to find again. Why did it burn him so?

With a groan, he raised his coppery head from the sand, instinctively turning back over his shoulder to gaze westward. There lay the Sea, stretching endlessly, and the blaze-orange sun sinking down beneath the far horizon. Silver eyes glistened with unshed tears. How long – dear Valar, how long! – since he had "seen"?

* * *

The last thing he remembered – if it could even be called that – was the sudden and strange sensation of spinning. Then of falling. He did not know if either phenomena had been "real," per say, but they were certainly more "real" than anything else he had known in Eru only knew how long.

Then the water had hit him, and he'd known beyond any doubt that this was indeed "real" in every sense. Bitter salt water had poured into his lungs as he'd gasped at the new reality, and limbs long forgotten were suddenly called upon once again to save his life. They had done their part, guided along by ancient memories of rhythmic waves and lyrical voices; but in the end, he had been stranded here on the sand like a beached whale.

Still dazed, he continued to cough and sputter as he absently pushed the sea-soaked locks of dark hair away from his pale face. Only then did he notice that his right hand clenched a sword – his own sword – in an iron grip of death, and it was only with great effort that he pried his fingers free from the hilt.

The water-logged figure rolled over onto his back, and for a time he could only stare in awe at a beloved sight almost forgotten; but the elation he felt now was no less than when he had first beheld these precious things, so very, very long ago.

Stars.

**Author's End Note: **Okay, I know it's a tiny start, but Chapter 1 is finished and coming soon. Promise. See you there!


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I still love them just the same.

**Author's Note: **All right, here we go. Hooray for Chapter 1, and hooray for my dear friend Tori-kins for her lovely review! You're the best, chica-chee! And thank you also in advance for the help you'll no doubt be as I write the remainder of this fic. Your input is always so beneficial! And now I hope you like the start of our new adventure.

**Chapter 1**

_"Maedhros did deeds of surpassing valour, and the Orcs fled before his face; for since his torment upon Thangorodrim his spirit burned like a white fire within, and he was as one that returns from the dead."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

"Good! Now, come at me again, but hold back a little longer this time. Try to draw me out."

Achilles grinned and adjusted his stance as his younger cousin Patroclus moved in to attack, twirling his wooden sparring sword in a manner all too reminiscent of his teacher. The elder warrior parried easily, then whirled around to strike again; but Patroclus had already anticipated the blow, his form and balance shifting effortlessly to that of one who was on the ready defense.

Achilles nodded, pleased, and smiled at his charge approvingly before launching into a new set of maneuvers. The two of them had upheld this daily tradition for years, and he hoped it would continue for many more. His "little" cousin, now twenty-one years of age, had improved dramatically over the past year, even to the point that it was almost challenging for Achilles when they sparred.

But no challenge could ever compare to his skirmish with Gil-galad four years ago. They had called it a draw, and rightfully so; but after that fight, Achilles knew he had no desire whatsoever to meet the High King of the Elves in earnest combat. One way or another, it would not have ended well; and if he flattered himself, he might hope Gil-galad had felt the same way about him. But he doubted it – highly doubted it.

In truth, few things at all could compare to that all-too-brief time spent in Lindon. Even for Achilles, who was hardly the most superstitious or reverent of mortals, it had seemed like being in another world altogether. And it remained a time of fond memories, though he had admitted so to none but himself.

That was also the time when he had bestowed on his dear cousin the official title of "Myrmidon." The boy had indeed proven himself in that fight, more than Achilles would have ever have expected from him at the time; but since then, Patroclus had enjoyed little opportunity to further test his mettle. He had participated in one attack on a neighboring province that had been sabotaging Phthia's crops, and he had performed well.

Quite surprisingly, Achilles had even been confident enough to let the youth out of his sight during the battle. True, he had ordered Eudorus to stay close to Patroclus and keep an eye on him in his stead, but the fact remained that his trust in the boy's abilities was growing rapidly. Yet that had been over a year ago, and they hadn't seen much action since.

To tell the truth, all of the Myrmidons, including Achilles himself, were starting to feel restless as month after month of inactivity slowly ate away at their battle-hungry spirits. After the din of the Trojan War had quieted down, Greece as a whole had become a very peaceful and quiet land. Too quiet for the Myrmidons. Most people, Achilles had noted, seemed to enjoy a tranquil life. He just found it boring.

The fearless commander of the Myrmidons had no idea how the ever-present tension would finally be resolved; but for his own part, he was almost feeling anxious to be gone from this docile place – back to a land where he knew warfare was already brewing on the dark eastern horizon. But as of yet, he had not spoken of this to another soul. He dared not.

"My lord!"

Achilles cursed under his breath as the call distracted him just long enough for Patroclus to press his advantage, dart in, and tap him lightly on the chest with his blunt blade. The boy was indeed improving.

Their match finished, the cousins turned to greet the new arrival, the elder nodding his acknowledgment. "Yes, Eudorus?"

Achilles' black-haired second-in-command marched over, looking as though he had wasted no time in reaching them.

"You told me to let you know when you had been up here for two hours, my lord," Eudorus succinctly informed his commander. "It has been two hours."

"Already? But that's wonderful! It means Odysseus should be here soon." His deep blue eyes shining with delight, Patroclus deftly came up behind his cousin and slipped the second sparring sword out of the other's relaxed grip. Achilles humored him.

"I suppose we should be heading back, then. With luck, he will be here before nightfall."

* * *

Later that evening, just as the sun was beginning its slow descent into the West, the three friends stood united once again in Achilles' home as they awaited the arrival of their fourth comrade.

"So he's coming for another anniversary of your miraculous return from the dead, eh?" surmised Eudorus with a gently teasing glimmer in his crystal eyes.

"From Lindon, yes," Patroclus corrected him, sounding as though they'd clearly discussed this same topic many times before. "Four years ago now…It doesn't feel like it's been that long."

Achilles added his own opinion. "In some ways, I think it feels even longer. Like it was in another lifetime, and now you're not even sure it really happened."

"Well, I already don't think it really happened. There's no doubt of that in _my_ mind."

Patroclus rolled his eyes. "Yes, thank you, Eudorus, we all know where you stand on the issue. And after four years, will nothing we say ever convince you that we're telling the truth?"

Eudorus only sighed, an image of perfect patience. "I will believe it when I can see it with my own eyes, child."

"And there is little chance of that now," Achilles broke in rather brusquely. "I'm afraid you have missed your chance, Eudorus."

"Missed it, my lord? The Myrmidons and I returned home as you commanded, fully expecting that we would never see either of you alive again. Had I been there when you left, I would have followed you into any land, mystical or otherwise."

Achilles laughed unreservedly at that. The response might have been predictable, but Eudorus' fealty was one of few constants in his life, and he knew it would continue to be so for as long as they both breathed.

"It's almost dark," the youngest among them commented with a worried glance out across the Aegean. "Shouldn't he be here by now?"

"I had hoped so," Eudorus told him, "but there is a strange feeling in the air tonight. Perhaps the winds out at sea have grown violent and blown him off his course?"

"If that is the case, we would do well to search the nearby shores for them and see that they have an escort back," Achilles concluded. "If they still aren't here within another hour, we will do just that."

* * *

But the hour came and went, and there was still no sign of Odysseus. As agreed, Achilles went off in one direction down the coast, and Eudorus the other. Patroclus they left behind at the house, just in case their guest arrived very belatedly at the proper place.

Achilles traversed northward along the shoreline, keeping a close eye out across the dark waters as he went. There was no sign of Odysseus. The golden warlord had just determined to turn around and retrace his steps back homeward, when suddenly he stopped.

He had heard nothing, certainly seen nothing, but that sixth sense innate to warriors had bid him halt. And so he stood still and silent, waiting. His blue eyes darted to and fro, in search of anything amiss, but they found nothing.

Puzzled, he slowly turned to leave and was summarily arrested in midstride by the cold steel of a gleaming sword angled across his throat. The godlike son of Peleus stopped short, at once both startled by the blade and utterly disgusted with himself. Never, ever before had someone been able to surprise him like that! How could he have heard nothing of his attacker's approach? Surely no one could move so quietly.

A moment of tense silence stretched before the newcomer at last spoke in a low voice.

"Who are you?"

Already devising how he might escape his unseen foe, Achilles bristled. How could this fool not know who he was? Everyone within a hundred miles of Phthia was familiar with his name and title! Yet he chose to restrain his righteous rage. For now.

"I am Achilles," he growled. "Son of Peleus, King of Phthia, and Lord of the Myrmidons. Who are you, to creep up behind me in my own lands in the middle of the night?"

There came no answer, but Achilles was sure he felt an indignation much like his own emanating in waves from the stranger behind him. How curious.

"Where is Phthia?"

Achilles sensed the question was sincere, but the inquiry itself only perplexed him more.

"Do you really not know?" he retorted impatiently with an attempt to turn his head, but the stranger only pushed his blade harder against his volatile captive's throat and tried again.

"What year is it?"

"What _year_? What sort of question is that?" Achilles' curiosity was almost stronger than his anger now. Almost. "Come away from behind me," he demanded hotly. "Only a coward hides his face while a blade is in his hand. Show yourself!"

The accusation of "coward" must have struck a chord, for his mysterious enemy at once stiffened in response and deliberately moved around with silent footsteps to stand before him, while the position of the sword remained unchanged. And whatever Achilles son of Peleus may have expected of the man who could so surprise him, it was not what he now beheld.

The figure standing before him was tall, unnaturally so. Long hair fell down like waves of copper fire to frame an ivory face that was at once beautiful, yet terrible to behold. And within that fair face burned silver eyes alight with an inner flame such as Achilles had never before encountered, not even among the Eldar of Lindon. He looked away.

Either this truly was one of the gods themselves – one whom he had not yet met in person – or an Elf, of even mightier power and descent than Gil-galad himself had been. And despite the danger, Achilles found himself hoping it was the latter; for he could not help but give credit where credit was due, albeit grudgingly, when in the presence of a fellow warrior – especially of one so great.

But as the Lord of the Myrmidons averted his gaze from the impossibly bright eyes of his attacker, he noted that the stranger brandished a sword with his left hand only. He had no right, as that limb ended abruptly in a stump halfway down his forearm and did not protrude far past the confines of his sleeve.

The silver and crimson colors of the fabric were strange to Achilles, but the design was vaguely familiar…again almost reminiscent of Lindon. Perhaps this was indeed another Elf who, like Maglor of two years prior, had been driven or cast far astray from his homelands?

But before he could dwell further on that possibility, the uneasy tension of the moment was torn asunder.

"Cousin, Odysseus is at the house. He only arrived late because – " Patroclus stopped short, stunned into silence by the sight of his mentor with a blade held at his throat. His sea-blue eyes darted from the red-headed stranger, to Achilles, and back again.

Achilles, for his own part, felt a new fear tugging at his heart. This was certainly the least welcome development he could have imagined; for the stranger was exceedingly dangerous and unquestionably superior to Patroclus in strength of arms, should the boy choose to rush unthinkingly to his cousin's aid.

"Cousin?" the tall foreigner echoed, as the mention of their relationship seemed to have sparked something alive within him.

But Patroclus himself hesitated, uncertain, before taking a few cautious steps forward. His eyes had not left the stranger for a second time since he arrived, and when he spoke, it was naught but a single word. A name. One Achilles knew he had heard before.

"Maedhros?"

**Author's End Note: **Okay, so that's the first chappie. I've got part of Chapter 2 done, but I'd be lying if I made any guarantees about the time of the next update. However long it takes, I do hope it will be worth the wait. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I still love them just the same.

**Author's Note: **Okay, so before we start off with Chapter Two here, I'd like to take a quick moment to thank **Angeline **and **Trollmela**for their most encouraging reviews. I really appreciate it, you guys are wonderful! And now I hope this next chapter can live up to your lofty expectations. Enjoy!

**Chapter 2**

_"Moreover Fingon was bold and fiery of heart, and loath to abandon any task to which he had put his hands until the bitter end, if bitter it must be."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

"Maedhros?"

Patroclus stared in ill-concealed awe at the imposing russet figure who seemed to tower over his cousin.

Achilles, on the other hand, appeared surprised that Patroclus had remembered the name; but how could he not? For how many times in the past two years had he recalled with wonder the tale he'd heard firsthand from Maglor – the tale of Fingon and Maedhros? The stranger's height and regal bearing betrayed that he was indeed of Elven kind, and the rest Patroclus had surmised easily enough by the lack of a right hand. The Elf's reaction seemed to confirm the boy's guess as well, for the blade of gleaming silver wavered, however slightly.

And the bright eyes that matched the blade kindled dangerously. "How is it that you know my name, child of Men, while your elder and _esteemed_ cousin betrays no recognition on his countenance?"

Patroclus took a deep breath and, for better or for worse, decided to speak the truth.

"I've met your brother."

* * *

Meanwhile, Eudorus' own search for Odysseus along the southern shore was about to come to a similar and equally unexpected end.

"Excuse me, friend!"

The warrior tensed, moved a hand reflexively toward the hilt of his sword, and turned around to face whoever had discovered him. The tall stranger approaching him from behind carried a long and deadly-looking sword; yet his face was kind and fair, and his hands did not stray near the weapon as though he meant to use it. His long ebon hair was damp, as were his clothes, and Eudorus wondered if perhaps he was the lone survivor of some shipwrecked vessel from faraway lands.

"Forgive my intrusion, but I must ask who you are and whose kingdom this is?"

_Ah, yes._ _Definitely from a shipwreck. _"My name is Eudorus, and these lands belong to my lord, Achilles of the Myrmidons."

Now normally, the name of Achilles was enough to spark recognition in the eyes of any man, but this poor wayfarer appeared just as confused as before.

"You are in Phthia," Eudorus tried again. "In Greece."

The stranger faltered in his response. "I'm afraid your names are strange to me. I must be farther from home than I had guessed."

"Then you must stay the night in my lord's house, until you can regain your bearings and plot your course homeward." The Myrmidon captain's offer had been automatic, for indeed it could not be honorable to refuse hospitality to one so lost.

And the stranger – now a guest – smiled gratefully at the invitation. "I would be honored."

Quite inexplicably, Eudorus bowed, a gesture of obeisance usually reserved for Achilles alone. "No, I am sure the honor will be ours. If you would follow me, my lord?"

The dark-haired stranger inclined his head in turn and willingly followed his new host back northward along the beach toward Achilles' dwelling.

No words were spoken for a time; and in the silence, Eudorus suddenly doubted the wisdom of inviting a mysterious, well-armed stranger into his master's home. Yet the man's countenance was naught save friendly, and his demeanor entirely trustworthy. If he could even be called that; for there was something in his disheveled yet noble bearing that reminded Eudorus of Achilles himself: a sort of demigod who, while not exactly divine, would never fully fit the mold of an ordinary "man."

And furthermore, what need had he felt to address this tall wanderer as "lord"? Eudorus did not know, but somehow, it had felt strangely right – almost natural – and the stranger had by no means objected to the title.

"What is your name, friend?" he inquired of a sudden.

There was only the briefest hesitation before he received his answer. "Fingon, son of Fingolfin."

"Fingon?" Eudorus verified, to which his companion nodded. But as they continued to walk in silence, he could not stop repeating the name over and over inside his head. Had he heard it somewhere before? Despite its foreign qualities, it had a hauntingly familiar ring to it. And for some reason unbeknownst to him, his thoughts invariably drifted back to the first day of Odysseus' annual visit two years prior…

But it was no matter. After all, he'd had an awful lot to drink that night.

* * *

Odysseus paced the stone-walled interior of his friend's home, restless. Patroclus had gone to recall Achilles over an hour ago, and they should certainly have been back by now. Could some ill fate have befallen them in the night? But surely, no. Only an utter fool would be daft enough to attack Achilles, and no one knew the surrounding land better than its own master. So what could possibly be keeping them?

The Ithacan king had nearly resolved to go after the two cousins himself, when suddenly a door opened from the southern end of the house, and in walked two dark-haired figures. One Odysseus knew very well indeed, but the other was strange to him. And yet so unmistakably familiar!

Without hesitation, the royal son of Laertes bowed low. "Greetings, my lord! I am Odysseus, King of Ithaca."

The newcomer smiled as he returned the gesture. "Well met, Odysseus. I am Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin."

Odysseus' courteous words of welcome died immediately on his tongue. "Fingon? _The _Fingon the Valiant?" His mind was a whirlwind as he stared dumbfounded at the Elf standing across from him. "Eudorus…do you realize what this means?"

"Of course, I do," Eudorus said flatly, wondering what could have so afflicted his typically eloquent colleague. "It simply means he has been washed ashore from a shipwreck and is in need of our hospitality. I reached the same conclusion myself when I first met him and invited him to stay with us. Odysseus, what in Hades has gotten into you? And where is Patroclus?"

"Patroclus?" The Ithacan finally tore his eyes away from Fingon. "He left to retrieve Achilles some time ago, but neither of them have returned. I was going to ask if you'd seen them."

"We're right here!" a voice broke in before Eudorus could answer, and Patroclus himself entered, followed closely by his cousin. "Odysseus, you will not believe what's happened to us…"

"Well, I'm sure it can be no more unbelievable than who I've just met here." Odysseus could scarcely contain his child-like delight as he gestured eagerly in the direction of their guest. "Patroclus, Achilles – I would like to introduce you to Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin, son of Finwe."

"Fingon?" All at once, Achilles looked as though he'd been physically struck, and beside him, the blood drained from Patroclus' sun-tanned face.

The youth groaned. "Oh, no…"

And Odysseus the great tactician, for once, was at a loss. "My gods, what's wrong with the two of you?"

Still pale-faced, Patroclus turned to Fingon. "Your cousin," he stammered in his shock, "your cousin, Maedhros. We just came from meeting him, and now he is gone to seek – "

"Maedhros?" Fingon's eternally youthful face was caught somewhere between hope and dread. "He is here? Alive?"

"Yes! He was cast up on the beach, just as you were, but he would not tell us much else."

"Then there's no time to waste, I must go after him! Where did you see him?"

"Northward along the shore," supplied Achilles. "Come, we will take you to where we met him."

* * *

"How did he look?" questioned Fingon as all five of them hurried up the moonlit coast.

"I wish I could tell you if he looked the same as you would remember," Achilles answered pensively. "He was fiery and fierce, like a tempest whose wrath is barely held back within the clouds. I would not want to see his fury spent on anyone I hold dear."

The Elf's voice grew wistful. "That sounds very much like him…and physically?"

"He was even taller than you are: red hair, pale skin, eyes of shining silver. And he was missing his right hand."

"Still missing…?"

When Fingon could not bring himself to finish the sentence, Achilles simply nodded.

"Here we are!" Patroclus exclaimed excitedly from up ahead. "This is where we found him; or where he found us. I'm not exactly sure which way it happened."

"_He _found me," his cousin clarified to settle the matter once and for all. "Beyond any question. I didn't even know he was there until his sword was at my throat."

"I hope Maitimo was not too harsh with you," Fingon half-apologized. "He can often be so, especially with those he does not know."

"He was willing to speak with us once he knew that we recognized him. Or rather, that Patroclus recognized him. I did not actually make the connection myself."

Meanwhile, Fingon had knelt down and was closely studying the sand in the place where the Greek cousins had once stood. As had Maedhros. Tracking Elves was a difficult business; but thankfully, Maedhros was no light-footed Silvan Elf, and he had apparently been heedless of any pursuit. So there remained signs that would have gone unnoticed by the mortals present, but Fingon himself could mark.

"He continued northward," the raven-haired Elf informed them. "But I do hope he slowed his pace, else we may never catch him."

He then took off in that same direction at a brisk rate himself, while the others followed as well as they were able. Fingon moved rapidly along the coast, his head bent over like a hound to follow the trail that his comrades could not detect. He was hesitant to lose his escort, as they had treated him most kindly; but all the same, he feared delay. For Maedhros was indeed taller than his cousin and had a longer stride. If the elder truly had set his mind to some far off task, he would unknowingly distance himself farther and farther from his despairing kinsman. But Fingon had never abandoned his cousin in the past, not even when all others had deserted him; he was not about to forsake him now.

"He stopped here awhile," he announced with no small relief when they arrived at a high point looking westward out over the Sea. "He must have taken a moment to survey the landscape and recoup his bearings, I would guess not half an hour ago. I cannot tell how long he stayed, but we should still make up considerable time. I only hope he stops again."

With that, the Valiant one set out once more, his speed ever increasing in the earnestness of his quest. They were gaining on their quarry, that much was certain, and Fingon nearly chuckled aloud at the irony of it all. For after all the times he and Maedhros had hunted together in the east of Beleriand, be it for sport or for Orcs, he would never have dreamed that the day would come when they'd actually be hunting each other.

Maedhros' path did not waver much in its northward trek, but it appeared he had indeed stopped briefly at other occasional intervals, as though searching for something himself.

"We cannot be far behind him now," Fingon surmised excitedly, his heart soaring. "Perhaps only a few minutes, or even less."

He rounded another group of boulders, pushed through a patch of gnarly trees, and came out on the ledge of another cliff. The others followed after him, but they stopped abruptly, just as he had, at the sight that met their eyes.

Before them less than a hundred feet further along the coastline stood another tall figure, as still and silent as an image graven in stone; but his head was bent forward slightly, as though listening, while the ocean winds whipped relentlessly at his cloak and long red hair. If he heard them approach, he gave no sign of it.

Yet he had heard them, Fingon knew. It would be impossible for any self-respecting Elf to ignore the raucous tramping of these mortals. He silently moved closer while they held back, watching in anxious anticipation; but they could never fully appreciate this moment.

"Maedhros?" he called softly, never doubting that his friend would hear. "Cousin."

The elder Elf made neither movement nor reply, by all appearances as impervious to the words as stone is to the rain. But as soon as Fingon stepped nearer and laid a tentative hand on his left arm, a wondrous transformation occurred, and Maedhros threw his arms around his cousin. Fingon returned the embrace with ardor, and long they stood locked together, weeping, while words passed in hushed murmurings between them.

Looking on from a distance with his fellows, Patroclus understood none of what was said in those moments that followed, but he could guess easily enough; for all too closely did it resemble the reunion he'd had with his own beloved cousin, now four years past. And for that brief time, all sorrow and grief passed away between these two great friends; and it seemed to Patroclus that perhaps he had caught a glimpse of the mighty, joyful Elves they were always meant to be, and had once been. Long, long ago.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I still love them just the same.

**Author's Note:** As I post this chapter, it only fitting that I thank my wonderful friend **Kat Carbines **for visiting us this week and supplying me with all sorts of lovely fanfic inspiration! Thank you also to** Torilei **and **Trollmela**for their reviews on the last chapter, which I appreciate tremendously! Hope you enjoy the next chapter, everyone!

**Chapter 3**

_"Many tales are told, and many songs are sung of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, in which Fingon fell, and the Flower of the Eldar withered."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "Unfinished Tales"_

Hearing Fingon's voice upon his ears again was like the first spring rains falling on winter's frozen ground. Yet Maedhros' fear was still greater than his joy; too many times before had he heard that blessedly welcome voice, only to wake in darkness and find that it had only been a dream. Always a dream. And surely it could be no different now, for Fingon was long dead. But then again…so was he.

It was the touch that had undone him, broken the spell that bound his limbs. He had crushed his cousin in the embrace that followed, putting forth all the ferocity of his immortal strength into the gesture, but Fingon made no protest. And for that moment, Maedhros simply reveled in the real – the _real _warmth of a living body against his, the _real _wetness of tears blending when their cheeks met, and the _real _rush of hot breath against his ear. It was no dream! Not this time.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. Not a few tears were shed in that happy hour of reunion, but Maedhros shed the more. He would never know how long he stood there, clinging desperately to his long-lost cousin as though all the world would end if he released him. But it did not matter. All that mattered now was the centuries of grief and guilt that finally found release in the brimming wellsprings of his eyes.

He had scarcely been able to weep again after that Fifth Battle. _Nirnaeth Arnoediad_ they had named it – "Tears Unnumbered," and rightfully so. Maedhros had shed his share, of course. After all, it had been _his _idea to launch a full assault against the might of Angband. The mustering of their forces had been called "The Union of Maedhros" – not "The Union of Fingon," who was then by right High King over all the Noldor.

But Fingon – dear Fingon! – ever open and ever trusting, had followed his cousin's lead without question. Even when his faith in his own brother and the other Elven kingdoms had faltered ere the joining of the Battle, he did not once doubt Maedhros. Yet it was Maedhros in the end who failed him.

It had been _his _troops that arrived late to the Battle, albeit through the treachery of the dark Men who marched in the ranks with one of his brothers. And when those same Men turned against their Elven allies, it had been _his _army that broke and scattered in the confusion, abandoning Fingon and his folk to whatever grim fate Mandos had prepared.

Balrogs, Maedhros had learned after. It had taken two Balrogs to bring down Fingon the Valiant, including Gothmog himself, the High Captain of Angband. But Maedhros had never forgiven himself for the disastrous outcome of that campaign. Not even now, as he held in renewed life the beloved cousin he had thought never to see again.

The last time they'd spoken, it had been in a council of war at his own cold fortress of Himring. Fingon had left imperturbably optimistic, as indeed he often was. The younger Elf had even confessed hopes of recalling his small son back to Hithlum from the shelter of the Falas, when all was ended in victory. But not one of Fingon's host returned home to Hithlum after that horrendous battle – the battle Maedhros himself had conceived and urged.

"Forgive me, Fingon," he groaned, hiding his face in his cousin's shoulder despite the difference in their height. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

Fingon only held him tighter, feeling his chest squeeze painfully in a way that had nothing to do with the intensity of their embrace.

"I have naught to hold against you, Maitimo," he whispered fervently. "For what can you beg pardon from me?"

"For the Oath, the Nirnaeth…for everything." A sob of raw emotion choked its way past the Elf who was normally so calculated, so guarded, in all he said and did. "Oh, Findekano, you've no idea what I did after the Battle – after you were gone."

Fingon's throat clenched, and suddenly, there were no more words to say.

* * *

"Come, let's leave them be."

Odysseus' gentle words drew them all away from the scene, and the four Greeks quietly withdrew back around a natural bend in the landscape, beyond the sight of their unworldly visitors.

"I wonder if this is why the Sea was so volatile tonight," the Ithacan went on once they were out of earshot. "All was well until we were nearing Phthia; then the wind picked up violently, and we feared a storm. But the gale died down as suddenly as it appeared. We had only been blown off course a few miles, so it was easy enough to reroute our heading. All we lost was some time."

"But if you had come on time, we might never have met Maedhros or Fingon," Patroclus reasoned with a smile.

But a flustered and very confused Eudorus had finally had enough. "Will someone please tell me what's going on here! Who are these two, and why the devil are we so thrilled for them to be here? And how is it you seem to know all about them after only a brief introduction?"

The tall youth beside him smirked. "Because they're Elves, Eudorus. Remember, you said that you would believe in them when you saw them with your own eyes? Well, now you have!"

"What? These are Elves? They seem more like gods to me."

"Not exactly," Odysseus corrected him. "But these two Elves are princes of a high and noble bloodline, and to us, they might as well be gods. We are blessed mortals indeed to have been accounted this rare honor."

"But do you think they'll still come back home with us?" Patroclus posed his query in the hushed, hesitant tones of one who fears to cause offense; for the prospect of these two historic figures moving on from this point alone was more than enough to crush his youthful spirit.

But his Ithacan colleague's response held no such fear. "Ultimately, it's their decision, but I do believe they'll come. They're still disoriented, after all, and we know more of the world now than they do. I'm sure much has changed – probably more than either of them yet realize."

"What?" Eudorus scoffed. "Please, my friend, you make it sound as though they've been dead for a thousand years."

Odysseus allowed himself another smile. "They have – but for one and a half thousand years would be more accurate."

"But that's impossible!" The Myrmidon captain was far too sensible for this sort of talk. "Odysseus, how do you truly intend to explain that?"

And for once, the wily strategist of Greece did not have an answer. "I'm honestly not sure how or why they have been returned here, and I'd wager they don't know yet, either. But the fact does remain that they were both killed well over a millennium ago."

"And yet you are all familiar with their stories, even after all that time?" Eudorus cast a furtive glance at his commander, who went on to supply the next answer.

"Do you remember, Eudorus, when Patroclus met another Elf around this same time two years ago? He was the one who told us their tale, or at least some small part of it; and I do remember seeing Fingon's name in the genealogies of Lindon, where Cirdan assured me that all of Gil-galad's forebears were deceased."

"Gil-galad!" Patroclus exclaimed on a sudden, well nigh interrupting his esteemed cousin. "Gil-galad hasn't seen Fingon – his father – since he was only a small child. We have to get them back together somehow!"

"Patience, Patroclus," Odysseus chided gently. "I imagine Fingon and Maedhros will want to go see Gil-galad for many reasons, but they must decide the timing. We cannot rush them into anything."

"But surely any father who was allowed to return from the dead would want to seek out his own child first among all people. I don't see how it could be otherwise."

"Nor do I," Achilles assured his young kinsman with a gentle hand on the shoulder. "But even so, Odysseus is right. If these Elves do return home with us tonight, we'll tell them what we know, and then leave the rest of the decisions to them. Though I admit I would like to help them, if in any way we can."

* * *

Some time later, the Elven cousins did rejoin them, and the group of six made their way in relative silence back to Achilles' home. Fingon and Maedhros walked side by side, one never drawing more than a couple of quick paces away from the other. They did not speak, yet they would occasionally glace at each other, as though communicating by a different means.

Back at the house, after the hunger and thirst of all present had been slaked, the Greek companions sat indoors with their revered guests around a cheery fire flickering in the hearth.

They talked of nothing terribly significant, until Maedhros at last leaned forward where he sat and inquired, "So, how is it that you mortals already know so much of the Eldar when the Elves hold no kingdom in these parts?"

Achilles answered him, "Odysseus, Patroclus, and myself have all sailed north to Lindon; it is exactly four years now since our return to Greece."

"You sailed?" Fingon repeated, frowning. "But I thought Lindon was far into the East of Middle Earth?"

"Much changed during the War of Wrath," Maedhros explained slowly. "The very earth itself was broken, and Beleriand drowned under the Sea before the might and wrath of the Valar. Lindon is now the westernmost front of Middle Earth."

Understanding dawned on the fair face of the younger Elf, and Patroclus remembered with new significance that Fingon had perished some time before Maedhros.

"Lindon is also the heart of Gil-galad's realm now," Odysseus expounded.

All eyes did turn to Fingon then, full of eager expectation, but the son of Fingolfin again showed no sign of comprehension.

"Gil-galad?"

Patroclus felt his stomach sink in horror at the realization: Fingon didn't know! All this time, they had assumed he knew everything.

But Maedhros leaned in closer to his friend's ear, whispering in their own tongue, "Gil-galad was the surname acquired by the High King at the end of the First Age…by Ereinion, cousin."

And then there could be no mistaking the joy that lit up Fingon's face in an instant with all the youthful exuberance of an excited Elfling.

"Ereinion is still in Middle Earth? But this is wonderful!" He leapt to his feet. "Why, we must leave at once – right now, this very moment!"

He was already halfway to the door when Maedhros suddenly caught him by the elbow. "Patience, cousin," the elder urged, "for such a journey will require much preparation. And what is more, before we leave, I still wish to search for Maglor, my brother."

"Maglor?" Fingon truly was amazed now. "Is he here, too?"

"I met him one night by the Sea," Patroclus at once supplied, as he'd done earlier that same evening for Maedhros. "But that was two years ago; he could be anywhere now."

"Yes, but I think it safe to say that we will still find him near the Sea," the taller Elf mused, almost to himself.

But Patroclus eagerly inquired, "Do you know what it is that keeps him by the Sea? He mentioned something of it when I spoke with him, but he would not reveal any of the details."

"And it is better that he did not," Maedhros interjected sternly. "For that is not a tale that you need hear – either then or now."

With that, the conversation ended, and the two Elves soon moved outside together to carry on their own discussion.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Hello, I am back with an update! Finally, I know. But, see, this story has by no means been abandoned. I've just had to cycle around through some other genres to make my way back to it. Thank you, one and all, for your infinite patience! I realize that there might not seem to be a whole lot happening in this chapter, but from an author's point of view, I daresay things are shaping up nicely. Do enjoy!

**Chapter 4**

_"But the jewel burned the hand of Maedhros in pain unbearable; and he perceived…that his right thereto had become void, and that the oath was vain. And being in anguish and despair he cast himself into a gaping chasm filled with fire, and so ended; and the Silmaril that he bore was taken into the bosom of the Earth."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

Once they were alone together beneath the twinkling light of Varda's stars, Fingon halted. It was a joy to be back, reunited with his closest friend, but so much had happened since his final battle! So much he had yet to learn.

"What else do you need to tell me, cousin?"

Maedhros offered an indifferent shrug, pointedly avoiding his friend's eye. "Did you not see it all in Mandos yourself on the woven tapestries of Vaire? Maglor and I each recovered a Jewel. I took one with me to my death in the fires of the earth, and Maglor cast his into the Sea. But he must still be alive…somewhere, after all this time."

"I only hope the guilt and the grief have not driven him mad over the centuries," Fingon remarked sadly.

"As do I; but I am loath to leave this place too hastily, knowing that he might be near. He was always the most faithful of my brothers, as you know."

"Yes, I know. But, Maedhros…I think we are both evading the true question at hand."

"Which is?"

"Why we have been restored to our living bodies and allowed to return to Middle Earth at all. Neither of our hands are clean of blood. We, the rebellious Noldor, of whom it was said, 'Your houseless spirits shall yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom you have slain should entreat for you'."

Feanor's firstborn paled. "Those words were spoken more of me than of yourself, cousin."

"They might as well have been spoken of me," Fingon countered. "Was I not ever close enough to be counted among your brethren?"

"Yea. Always." Maedhros' high shoulders slumped a bit as he met his kinsman's gaze. "And how I hated that closeness at the end, when you were enmeshed in the Curse as helplessly as the rest of us – the true Feanorions. Findekano, after I threw myself into that chasm, I did not expect ever to return. I did not _want _to return."

The hint of quiet desperation in his cousin's voice clawed at Fingon's heart; this was not the charismatic, commanding companion he had always known and dearly loved so many centuries ago.

"Yet here we are, whether we will or no; it is far too late now for any sort of choice in the matter. And as the Valar do nothing without purpose, there must be a reason for our presence here."

"Of course, there is a reason; and the place to discover it would be in Lindon, or at least on the journey there."

"And how very fortuitous for us that our hosts know the way."

Maedhros snorted softly. "Indeed. But if it truly is a simple matter of following the coastline northward, as they say, then I see no need for them to come at all."

"No need, perhaps. But they do want to come, Maitimo; you can see the desire on their faces when they speak of Lindon. And its King."

The older Elf tilted his face up to the vast expanse above and breathed out a long, deep sigh, unwilling to delve further into the conversation on this particular evening.

"Come spar with me, cousin, as we used to do," he said at last, half-commanding and half-pleading. "Let us see that some things, at least, still have not changed."

Fingon smiled, eager to comply. "I will gladly, Russandol. Is it not also fortunate, then, that we have both returned with our swords?"

He drew his own weapon to emphasize the remark, only to find that his kinsman had already done the same and was awaiting him.

They stared at each other through the crossed blades for a moment before Maedhros chuckled suddenly. "How long may we be out here, do you think, before the mortals will think we've run off and come looking for us?"

"I don't particularly care; they should know we are not going anywhere for the moment. Right now, I am content simply to be physical again."

Fingon the Valiant brought his sword back to begin the contest, and for both Noldorin princes in that hour, it truly was good to be alive.

* * *

It had taken every reserve of patience Patroclus possessed, along with some very physical restraint from his cousin, to prevent him from charging out of doors to investigate what was keeping their revered guests.

"Do not be selfish, cousin," Achilles scolded, though his face conveyed nothing save amusement. "As before, they will come back when they are ready. I'm sure they are happy just to enjoy each others' company now, after so long a separation; and it would be cruel of us to deprive them of that by intruding on their time together. So let them be."

Patroclus looked ready to pout, but instead he sighed and commented, "You can certainly tell that Fingon is Gil-galad's father."

"Very much so, in his appearance and his demeanor," Odysseus concurred sagely. "As for Maedhros – his eyes are like the very stars of heaven, but with all the darkness of the Void behind. I cannot look upon them long."

"Nor can I. Yet there is something else remarkable I have noticed." Eudorus' voice softened suddenly in a rare moment of sentiment as he turned to address Patroclus and Achilles. "They are even more inseparable than the two of you."

There was a failing of words for all of them after that, but any subsequent awkwardness vanished like smoke before a wind when the two Elven cousins themselves finally returned indoors of their own accord. They stopped upon entering, mildly surprised to see four Greek faces immediately look up at their approach.

"We expected you all to be asleep by now," Fingon spoke into the empty silence. "I hope you were not waiting for us."

"My cousin here was afraid you'd left for good." Achilles bit back a smile when he saw the mortified glare Patroclus cast at him, but Fingon only laughed – a light, pleasant sound that brightened the dim room like a flaring fire.

"You need have no fear of that just yet, my friends. As I'm sure you already know, there is still much to be decided here before any serious action can be taken."

"And all of that, I think, may be left until daylight; it has been an eventful day for all of us, to say the least." Odysseus rose, followed shortly by the other Greeks, and Eudorus turned to address the Ithacan beside him.

"My lord, would you care to pass the night with me so that our other guests can remain and not be parted? My home is not far, and we may return here in the morning."

"I should be delighted, thank you! And my lords, I bid you both good night." The Grecian king bowed to the Elves before also offering his farewells to Achilles and Patroclus, and with a confirmation of their plans to reconvene on the morrow, he departed with Eudorus.

When they had gone, Patroclus cleared his throat softly. "I'm afraid we have only one spare bedroom here, but I would be happy to stay with Achilles so as not to inconvenience the two of you."

"That won't be necessary, young one," Fingon gently declined. "I have no objection to sharing a room with my cousin."

"Nor do I," Maedhros put in. "And besides, we have much to discuss."

Achilles beckoned them forward. "Then come. I will show you there, and we shall say farewell 'til morning."

* * *

"You're not going to sleep at all, are you, cousin?" Achilles queried with a chuckle as he and Patroclus later returned to their own rooms.

The blonde youth attempted to throw a stern, sideways glare in the direction of his keeper, but he could never hope to conceal the giddiness that bubbled up to scrawl an irrepressible smile across his face. "Probably not," he admitted lamely. "I just can't believe they're here, back from the dead!"

"It is quite remarkable," agreed the Myrmidon lord with a nod of his tawny head, "especially that they should be returned here of all places, and not in the land of their own people."

"But do you really believe they'll stay?"

Achilles stopped, having arrived at his own bedchamber, and he turned to offer his young kinsman the encouragement of a hopeful smile. "I cannot foresee that they will long stay here with us in Phthia, as their path must inevitably lead them on to Lindon; but unless they expressly forbid it, _I _fully intend to stay with _them _throughout the entirety of that journey."

* * *

Fingon sat down on the bed to remove his sand-encrusted boots and sighed contentedly. His aching feet certainly felt as though they'd been cramped and constricted for one and a half thousand years!

"Maitimo, I hope you don't actually plan to sit up talking for the remaining hours of the night like you suggested. I truly am exhausted." He lay down without further comment then, resting his head on his forearm.

Maedhros smiled down at him before striding over to the open window. "Nay, I will not deprive you of your well-earned rest, cousin; I merely did not wish to be parted from you tonight for any reason. Sleep now, and I will join you shortly."

Weary grey eyes lost their focus in the land of dreams as Fingon slept in quiet, perfect peace. But Maedhros only watched his cousin breathing and found no rest that night.

**Author's End Note: **Wish me luck on future chapters, and thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Hello, hello. I confess even I'm surprised with how quickly this next update was ready, but I do declare it worthy of posting. Many hugs and thank-you's to **Blackeri, Trollmela, **and **Angeline **for sticking with me and reviewing the last chapter! You guys certainly deserve a quick update, after the drought I've made you wait through. Enjoy!

**Chapter 5**

_"Great was the sorrow of Earendil and Elwing for the ruin of the havens of Sirion, and the captivity of their sons, and they feared that they would be slain; but it was not so. For Maglor took pity upon Elros and Elrond, and he cherished them, and love grew after between them, as little might be thought; but Maglor's heart was sick and weary with the burden of the dreadful oath."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

The following dawn rose to find the six old friends and new acquaintances gathered around a large wooden table in Achilles' humble home; it was barely past sunrise, yet they had already consumed a morning meal and were now in deep discussion about their forthcoming trip to Lindon. Thus far, their greatest concern had been the weather, as the strength of the summer months was fading fast; and although it would remain warm enough in Greece for some time after, the northern lands for which they departed were bound to feel the sting of winter soon approaching.

It was quickly the general consensus that the sooner they could leave, the better it would be for all concerned.

"Is there a preference to traveling by land or by sea?" Maedhros at length inquired.

"Either way will get you there, but the terrain by the coast is often treacherous," Odysseus informed him, speaking from a fair share of personal experience. "I imagine going by land would easily take us twice as long as traveling by ship."

"Then we must go by ship!" Fingon enthusiastically broke in. "Whatever we must do to get us to Lindon with all haste."

Achilles gave a firm nod. "It is decided then. I will have my men begin preparations for the journey immediately, but I think we must still allow for a couple of weeks' time before all will be ready for our departure."

"Of course. After all, I plan to leave in a properly equipped vessel this time, Achilles, unlike our sorry expedition four years ago." Odysseus' dark eyes twinkled as he jibed his friend, recalling the small Trojan ship they had borrowed for their first journey to Lindon.

The Myrmidon lord smiled back at him, all too willing to play along. "But if all six of us are embarking on this venture, my friend, won't Penelope be upset that you're leaving home again for so long?"

"I have already sent one of my aides home with a message for her explaining our situation. I'm certain she will understand how important this is."

They all knew Odysseus spoke truly, for the unwavering trust between himself and his wife was as strong as bedrock, and equally unshakeable.

Fingon, meanwhile, observed his companions' interactions with bittersweet amusement. For all too keenly did it remind him of his own dear wife, who would not be parted from him even in the face of inescapable danger; and so she condemned herself. But not so his son! He had purposefully orphaned Ereinion to keep him safe, and by the grace of the Valar, that desperate aim had been accomplished. Despite everything, his precious child was still alive.

"Does Ereinion still dwell with Cirdan?" he asked aloud.

"Yes, he does." Odysseus smiled empathetically at the only other father in the room. "And it is clear that the Shipwright remains one of his most valued friends and councilors."

Fingon nodded, distant and misty-eyed. "I had hoped it would be so, even if not until much time had passed. Sending my son away was the hardest thing I ever did. Even harder than…" His eyes wandered unthinkingly to what remained of his cousin's right wrist, but the Valiant One soon recovered his senses and tore his eyes away. He changed the subject. "Who else was there in Lindon that you remember?"

Patroclus thought a moment. "I remember Elrond Half-elven; he and Gil-galad seemed very close, as well. Did either of you know him?"

Fingon shook his head without a word but cast a nervous glance over at his cousin.

"Elrond was born after your time," Maedhros conceded to his friend with some reservation. "But he and I have met. Long ago." He said no more, and the others sensed it would be best not to press the matter.

Their gathering began to drift apart shortly thereafter as the Greeks went about their individual tasks, while Maedhros gently took Fingon's arm and pulled him aside. The latter could plainly see his friend was troubled.

"Maitimo, what's wrong?"

Maedhros cast a cautionary glance over his shoulder before leading them out of the common area and back to their shared bedchamber. Then Fingon understood; he was one of only a rare few who could read his guarded cousin so well.

"You don't want them to come with us, do you?"

Maedhros paced, stalking the stone floor like a caged wildcat, and admitted, "I like them not; their kind has done little in the past to earn my trust."

Fingon frowned, not comprehending. "But what part did these people have in the events of old? Now is not the past, cousin."

"And what makes you believe that mortals have improved since then? I have never yet seen Time be kind to any race, Findekano – least of all our own."

The raven head dipped slowly. "Perhaps not; but if they are to trouble themselves so greatly on our account, then I see no way that we could in good faith leave without them. Ereinion clearly trusted them, cousin, and so shall I, even if you do not. Remember, the Elves of Hithlum always found stalwart allies among Men."

A sullen shadow darkened Maedhros' countenance. "That is true. But not all Men were friends of Hithlum."

Silence lingered about the air, until Fingon finally dared to speak again. "Yet their presence might simplify our entrance into Lindon, since they are already known there."

The restless pacing ceased, and silver eyes grew hard as steel. "I expect nothing but a cold welcome in Lindon, if any at all. _You _may be well received there, Findekano, by Cirdan and your son. But not so I, after what I've done. You must have seen that from Mandos, as well."

The son of Fingolfin wrung his hands, desperate to stop his kinsman's headlong tumble into bitterness and despair. "But, Maedhros, are you not free of the Oath now? Are we not both free of the Curse?"

"Yea. But not from the memory of them."

"Do you think perhaps that we have been returned to redeem ourselves from them – to cleanse our entire households from vile acts wrought in the Elder Days?"

Maedhros suddenly sounded weary, and so very sad. "I am not certain any deed the two of us might do would ever be enough to atone for the wrongdoings of my family. Your death, and the Nirnaeth as a whole, was only one…but it was not the greatest."

Fingon dropped his eyes to the ground, unwilling or unable to say more. "Tell me more of your meeting with this Elrond Half-elven," he pressed at length.

Maedhros' breath came in a tense hiss. "Maglor and I took him captive, along with his brother Elros, after the third Kinslaying. Ambarussa both fell that day, side by side in death even as they were in life. And so it was an exchange of twins for twins in the end; I thought it only fair."

"But at least you did not kill them."

The elder pursed his lips together, debating how much honesty was wise in regards to this particular tale. But if he could not be truly forthright with his dearest friend and cousin, he was in a sorry state indeed.

"I considered it," he confessed finally, and the look of horror that fleeted so briefly across Fingon's face did not escape him. "It would have been easier to kill them, though surely I would have regretted it – along with everything else. It was Maglor, rather, who took the greater pity on them." The russet Elf smiled mirthlessly. "And so he always had their greater love."

"How long were they in your care?"

Maedhros shrugged and resumed his pacing. "Long enough. They were nearing their majority when we finally parted with them to Gil-galad. That was how I first met Ereinion: when he came to the Havens with his ships and his army to demand the return of Earendil's sons after we had captured them." His sad gaze turned to Fingon. "I'm sorry to say it was the only personal encounter of any kind that I ever had with your son, and as you might imagine, it did not end well. So now, cousin, I think you understand why my presence in Lindon will not be welcome."

Fingon stood and strode before the path of his restless cousin, not even flinching when he met the other's embittered gaze. "If you are not welcome, Maitimo, then neither shall I be. For doubtless we have been sent hither for the same purpose, and I will not be parted from you." When his earnestness softened the harsh light in his friend's eye, he went on. "Would you then rather seek Celebrimbor, your nephew? Somehow I doubt he and Ereinion dwell too close to one another."

"If he is even still alive. We shall have to make that decision when the time comes; but for my part, I would rather see you reunited with your son. So let our plans, for now, remain unchanged."

* * *

As they began making their arrangements to depart over the next few days, it became clear to Patroclus that the Elven cousins, although truest of friends, were of shockingly different temperaments. Fingon, it seemed, was ever genial and outgoing, always happy to engage in converse with his hosts; but Maedhros spoke little and was stern of face, smiling only in the presence of his kinsman. He could indeed be harsh at times, and in all perceptible ways different from Gil-galad.

Now Fingon was an Elf more to Patroclus' liking – in most regards very much like his honored son, and in some ways even more lighthearted and carefree. Perhaps the burden of kingship was a weight from which he was happy to be free.

"What do you make of them, cousin?" he asked Achilles one night when they were alone in the latter's chamber. "Now that we've had some time to observe them, I would like to know honestly what you think."

The tawny Myrmidon paused before replying. "Honestly, Patroclus? I don't think we'll ever truly realize what it means to have them here. We know only a portion of their story; and clearly there is so much more to be told, even if they will not reveal it to us themselves. I cannot decide if they are more similar or dissimilar to Gil-galad, even though they are so close of kin. Their tale is quite different from the present King's, and I think it would be foolish of us to expect the same from them as we would from him."

"I know what you mean," the boy mused. "It's like they're all characters in the same long story, but the roles they've played put them in completely separate worlds. It's strange. I always find myself wondering how long it will be before they decide to leave us for good, but I never had those doubts with Gil-galad, even before I knew him well. I suppose he never gave me a reason to doubt him – besides capturing me, of course. And they have given me no reason either, yet I still doubt them. I can't explain it."

Achilles shook his head, smiling warmly. "You'll turn into me that way if you're not careful, worrying so much over things you can't control. Get some sleep now, and don't let these thoughts trouble you anymore tonight."

A resigned sigh confirmed that he had won the argument. "I know, I know. You're right, of course, and I will do my best. Goodnight, cousin."

They embraced, and once more, Achilles thanked the gods for the dearest person in his own brief mortal life.

"Sleep well, Patroclus."


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **And here's another update ready in a timely fashion! I must say things are progressing nicely thus far, and I do like how the chapters are shaping up together. Thanks yet again to **Blackeri, Trollmela, **and **Angeline **for reviewing the last chapter. Enjoy, everyone!

**Chapter 6**

_"Come stop your crying, it will be all right. Just take my hand, hold it tight._

_I will protect you from all around you. I will be here, don't you cry._

_For one so small, you seem so strong. My arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm._

_This bond between us can't be broken. I will be here, don't you cry._

_And you'll be in my heart – from this day on, now and forevermore. You'll be in my heart, no matter what they say. You'll be here in my heart always._

_When Destiny calls you, you must be strong. I may not be with you, but you've got to hold on._

_Just look over your shoulder. Just look over your shoulder. I'll be there, always."_

_~ Lyrics from "You'll be in my Heart" by Phil Collins_

Patroclus woke early the next morning, still restless despite his cousin's counsel the night before. Achilles was predictably still asleep, and Odysseus and Eudorus had not yet arrived from the latter's home. But Fingon was already up and about, sharpening his sword by the fire whilst softly humming to himself in his own tongue.

Patroclus gently cleared his throat to announce his presence, even though Fingon had doubtless been aware of him long before. The song stopped, a fact which Patroclus instantly regretted, but he was greeted with a warm and welcoming smile nonetheless.

"Good morrow, child."

By the gods, he sounded so much like Gil-galad! "Good morning," Patroclus answered slowly, then cast a quick glance about the room. "Is Maedhros awake, too?"

Fingon nodded. "Awake and long departed."

The young mortal looked stricken, as his worst apprehensions had been realized. "He's gone?"

"But he will be back," the other promised with understanding in his eyes, "otherwise I would not still be here. My cousin has gone south to seek out Maglor, and I can hardly blame him. It's his brother, after all, and I would certainly do no less for my own."

That last comment sparked the boy's curiosity as he stepped closer. "How many brothers do you have?"

"I have only one brother and a sister, both of them younger than myself. But Maedhros is the eldest of seven – all brothers."

Patroclus blinked in amazement. "Seven? I can hardly imagine such a life! I have no siblings at all – only my cousin Achilles, who is nearly old enough to be my father. But I think I feel sorry for Maedhros' mother."

Fingon joined him in a smile, but this time it was strangely sad. "So do I, child."

A quiet moment passed then, until Patroclus voiced his lingering confusion. "Why didn't you go with him?"

A wistful sigh answered. "I wanted to, but one Elf will suffice for this task; and no one knows Makalaure better than his eldest brother. Besides, we decided it would be best if I stayed behind to help prepare for our journey northward, so that we might leave as soon as Maedhros returns. He should not be gone longer than a week or two."

"And if he still hasn't found Maglor?"

Fingon hesitated, suddenly uncertain in his response. "Then, I am not sure."

When the subsequent silence grew thick and palpable in the room, the young Greek deemed it best that he leave his guest to solitude once more and turned to leave.

"Patroclus…"

Fingon's call brought his retreat to an abrupt halt. He looked back, waiting expectantly. "Yes, my lord?"

The Elf's gaze toward him was soft and kind. "Patroclus, now that we are alone, there is something I must ask. Of all your companions, it seems that you came into the most contact with Ereinion – with Gil-galad." He tested the new name slowly, experimentally, and the sound of it on his tongue was foreign in reference to his only child. "Please, what can you tell me about my son?"

Patroclus came back over, now smiling fondly as an abundance of happy memories leapt into his mind, and joined his companion near the last smoking embers in the hearth. To divulge his heart concerning Gil-galad would be an honor beyond expression! Where could he even begin?

"I most remember Ereinion as being very kind," he said at last. "Kind and regal in a way that we mortals could scarcely imagine – as though we could all see his body, but his mind was in an altogether different realm. His generosity always amazed me, as well: the way he protected me and cared for me himself when the Trojans had taken out their anger on me; or how he took me into his own household on our return to Lindon, rather than forcing me into a life of servitude.

"And I will always be indebted to his mercy, his compassion, in so many ways. He did not have to take me with him, little more than a sick burden, when he left Troy. It would have been within his right as a captor to kill me; or to leave me with the Trojans, who would have done the same." Patrolcus spoke slowly and with forced deliberation, as it was difficult to recall the grim potential of what might have transpired in those few dark days.

"He spoke to me briefly of you and of his grandfather. He misses both of you very much, but I'm sure that he has become a great honor to all his forefathers."

Fingon allowed himself a nod and a small smile, pleasantly surprised with the report. "I had more expected to hear tales of valor and chivalry, or great deeds of war. But perhaps it is best that his days have not modeled themselves after my own."

Quiet relief flooded over the Elven prince most renowned for his valor, and a look of unconquerable, parental pride hung about him like a cloak of contentedness. And a cold hand of longing closed Patroclus' throat when suddenly he realized that he would have given anything in the wide world to see, or at least remember seeing, that same light of pride in his own father's loving eyes.

He truthfully remembered very little of his parents now, no matter how vigorously he tried to convince himself otherwise. Whenever he lay down at night, the memories that came to him in dreams were always of Achilles or his divine aunt, Thetis. Or of Gil-galad. But never of his own parents – not anymore. Not since the terrifying, tearful nightmares about their deaths had finally subsided some years past.

The boy forced himself to speak again. "I only saw Ereinion fight once, but it is something I shall never forget. He fought with an Elven spear, which was like nothing any of us Greeks had seen before."

"Really?" Fingon's eyebrows rose. "I was never aware he had such an interest in spears – a most difficult weapon, to be sure, and so I have always favored the sword myself. Cirdan must have taught him."

Now the proud gaze faded into one of hopeless longing, of a father regretting lost precious moments and irreplaceable memories never shared with his son. Only then did Patroclus realize how very different it was to be near Fingon, as opposed to Gil-galad. Their smooth, ageless faces betrayed nothing of the millennia that separated father and son; yet there was something about the light of Fingon's eyes – something that did not threaten the youth himself, but was still dangerous nonetheless. More dangerous than Patroclus could ever know.

But there was a grief and a horror in those eyes as well, reminiscent more of Maglor's unspeakable anguish. Fingon masked it with a delightful smile, unlike both his cousins; yet it hovered there all the same, lying ever just beneath the surface of his shining, joyful eyes. And now that they were alone, Patroclus could _feel _the weight of horrendous experiences which were not his own, burdens that each hung like a millstone around his heart. It was so heavy! How could Fingon, or any of his kindred, possibly endure it?

"We have more visitors," the Elf said suddenly, with an absent gesture towards the door. "I can already hear them, your friends Odysseus and Eudorus."

Patroclus nodded hurriedly and leapt up to receive his fellow Greeks, all the while wondering at how Fingon's Elven tongue could turn even the most foreign of names into a lilting, mystical melody. And as he swung the door open for their newly-arrived guests, the youth could plainly see that Odysseus was already devising some new diabolical method of rousing his cousin on this particular morning.

* * *

A couple of hours and more than a few cursings later, Achilles had joined his comrades and was almost back to his normal, pleasurable self. Almost. That was a cruel trick they had pulled, using an unfortunate beetle the way they did; of course, had anyone but himself been the victim, Achilles would have thought it clever. Even Fingon had enjoyed a hearty laugh at his expense.

Maedhros' sudden absence was a shock to all of them, but in the privacy of his own heart, the Lord of the Myrmidons was glad. It would be the relief of a great load lifted from his shoulders if he could direct the preparations for their journey without a sense of constant scrutiny and opposition from Maedhros. The tension between the two of them was unmistakable, and their comrades purposefully avoided the topic for fear of aggravating it by arousal. For his own part, Achilles had no choice but to hold Maedhros in the highest regard; yet he seldom addressed the Elf directly – a task made much simpler by the latter's apparent preference of communicating only with or through his cousin. Perhaps this new arrangement truly would prove advantageous for them all.

He liked Fingon very well, however, and knew that his companions did as well; even Eudorus could find no fault with Gil-galad's amiable father. And what a sweet reunion it would be for both parent and child when that day at last arrived! But it was with Gil-galad himself that Achilles' primary concerns lay. While the High King of the Elves had never appeared eager to be rid of his guests four years ago, he had certainly made it clear that he believed their departure to be for the best. Would the Greeks even be welcome back now, arriving thus unannounced and uninvited?

Furthermore, if Gil-galad's suspicions were correct – and Achilles had to believe they were – then Lindon might no longer be as safe a realm as they supposed. He had no fear of danger for himself, of course; but could he really lead his dear cousin and his two closest friends into such a threat? They could not be dissuaded from the journey now; he knew them all well enough for that. Odysseus, and very likely Patroclus, would be going with or without him, and Eudorus was not about to be left behind a second time. Especially not if Achilles went, which was bound to be the case since Patroclus was resolute in his intentions.

The golden warlord shook his head in an attempt to stop his brain from running round and round in these hateful circles. Hadn't he told Patroclus just yesterday that worrying did nothing to help solve one's problems? And yet his greatest fear by far was one he still kept hidden far away from the eyes and ears of others, and sometimes even from his own conscious mind: the fear that once he had returned to a wide, free land where warriors thrived and kings fought their own battles even to the death, he might not possess the strength of will to ever leave again.

Never before had the godlike son of Peleus encountered such a war of secret dread and desperate desire.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note:** Hey, everyone, sorry this update took so long. I ran into a real nasty case of writers' block near the end of the chapter. But that has been overcome, and now I may present the long-awaited Chapter 7. Big hugs to **Blackeri, Trollmela, **and **Angeline **for their encouragement and for sticking with me through the ardous journey of this story's creation. Enjoy!

**Chapter 7**

_"Long before…Fingon had been close in friendship with Maedhros…and the thought of their ancient friendship stung his heart. Therefore he dared a deed which is justly renowned among the feats of the princes of the Noldor: alone, and without the counsel of any, he set forth in search of Maedhros."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion" _

It was three weeks before all was ready for their departure from Phthia – three weeks before Maedhros finally returned from his searching in the South. But he returned alone, and with no tidings whatsoever of his brother. Fingon's heart ached for him, as he offered the meager comfort of a tight embrace upon his cousin's arrival.

But what troubled the Valiant prince more than any heartfelt empathy was the condition in which Maedhros had returned. He was decidedly very worn and irritable from his travels, as the mortals could only guess due to the increased curtness of his demeanor. Fingon, however, knew his kinsman well enough to look past the unchanged physical appearance and discern the unmistakably weary, haggard look in Maedhros' eyes.

"Did you not rest at all?" he asked quietly when they were alone together. Hopefully here he could convince his friend to relax and let his guard down for at least a while.

"I did not need to," came Maedhros' short reply.

Deciphering that as a negative, Fingon pressed him further. "Well, you must do so now before we depart. We are to set sail tomorrow morning, but that should still give you time enough to recover your strength. I know you shall not require long."

The taller Elf conceded with a sigh. "Very well. Leave me for a time then, cousin, and I will take my rest. You may expect me to be ready in the morning, along with the rest of you."

"Good." Fingon clasped his shoulder with a friendly smile and then withdrew, leaving Maedhros to the quiet and serenity that was so conducive to sleep. But later that day, after the sun had set and it was time for Men and Elves alike to partake in slumber, the oldest son of Fingolfin returned to his room and immediately stopped short at what he saw.

Maedhros, still in his travel clothes, sat motionless beside the window, staring out up at the open sky. The bed clearly had not been touched. Perhaps he was simply resting with his eyes still open, as many of their kind were wont to do?

But silver eyes blinked in the pale moonlight. "I am awake, cousin."

"I can see that; might I inquire why?"

"I only wished to think."

Exasperated partly with impatience, but far more so with concern, Fingon stepped closer to the unmoving figure. "Please, Maitimo. What could be so upsetting that you won't even sleep, when I can plainly see you are exhausted? I believe you have hardly slept at all since our return here." He stared at the back of that head he knew so well. "Your failure to find Maglor is not the only thing which troubles you."

It was not a question, nor was it ever meant to be one; and Maedhros knew no words would possibly allay his friend's concern this time. It wasn't even that he wished to deceive Fingon; he just would have preferred to carry this particular burden alone.

"Sleep," he confessed at last, and with some difficulty, "has not been kind to me these past few weeks."

Fingon looked down at him sadly, finally understanding. "You mean the dreams have not been kind to you."

"Aye." Maedhros finally met his worried gaze. "That is one thing I do not miss about being dead, Findekano: no nightmares."

"Are they bad?"

The fiery head nodded. "Worse than I can remember in a long time. Ever since the Sea spat us out here, I have been tormented by them."

Fingon closed the distance between them and sat down at the window sill beside his friend. A draft of evening air trickled in, cool and refreshing. The younger prince welcomed it. "What do you dream of?" he prodded tentatively.

"Hmph. There are so many to choose from. But thus far, they have been mostly of my captivity in Angband, up until the time you rescued me."

A hard lump formed in Fingon's throat, and he found he could not answer easily. The night breeze was suddenly cold. "I'm sorry, Maedhros."

"And how many times have I told you not to be? You saved me that day, cousin, hand or no. But all the same, when we find Maglor, I do hope his singing will help dispel the dreams as before. He always could help me rest peacefully."

_When _we find Maglor, Fingon noted. Not _if_. "I am glad you had him then."

"Yes." Maedhros' voice softened, but the current of fierce resolve underlying his words never wavered. "I must find him, Fingon; I _will_ find him."

The younger Elf swallowed thickly; he could already see where this was leading.

Maedhros continued, "I plan to travel northward on land, by horse or by foot if I must, and continue searching along the way until I have found my little songbird. You need to see your son, my friend, and I would not deprive you of that. So take the ship with the others, and I will meet you all in Lindon as soon as I am able. But I will not forsake my brother."

Fingon nodded slowly, having expected nothing less from his elder. He leaned forward and gently clasped Maedhros' remaining hand in his own two. The flesh was warm, though it bore the calluses of one who had been a swordsman for many centuries.

"Do you really think to be rid of me so easily?" he said with an easy smile. "I do long to see Ereinion, cousin, but not at so great a cost. We will both travel by land, let the time of our journey be what it may. You should know by now that I will not forsake you any more than you will Maglor."

A red head drooped slightly. The tension left Maedhros' shoulders, and Fingon knew his words had hit their mark. His cousin might be as proud as any figure to grace their illustrious bloodline, but even Nelyafinwe Maitimo could not sustain himself alone forever.

As they embraced during those next moments, Fingon felt Maedhros' lips brush in a tender, brotherly kiss against his temple, and he let his heavy eyelids close of their own accord. Could nothing be simple anymore? Right now, the only constant they could depend on was their steadfast commitment to remain together; he hoped it would be enough. Maedhros pulled away first.

"What about the mortals?"

His cousin shrugged. "Let them decide what they will. It does not please me to inconvenience them so; but I think they will accompany us all the same, or at the very least see us on our way. Personally, I should be happier on land anyway. Neither of us have ever loved ships as some of our kindred do, and long journeys on horseback are nothing new to us. Now please, won't you lie down and at least try to rest, Maitimo? I will stay with you."

Fingon regretted those final words as soon as they slipped past his lips. After all, he knew as well as any that Maedhros loathed sympathetic company. Fingon the Valiant was one of very few individuals brave enough to offer comfort to his imposing cousin. Another was Maglor.

But surprisingly, Maedhros had no violent retort for him this time. Instead he only nodded slowly, deliberately, and rose to begin changing out of his travel-worn garments. Fingon gave assistance wherever he saw that it was needed, but he did not wait for Maedhros to ask. He was not cruel enough to so wound his cousin's notorious pride. But between the two of them, the task was accomplished soon enough, and the raven-haired prince at last managed to coax his friend to bed.

Fingon presently lay down beside him with the assurance that he could have done nothing more to help his kinsman; yet he never did know if Maedhros finally surrendered to the call of sleep that night.

* * *

Seabirds sang, waves crashed, and winds whistled with strength enough to make any sailor's heart soar. It was still early morning, and the Greeks were loading the last of their supplies onto a readied ship.

"You certainly are jittery this morning," an amused Eudorus noted to his youngest friend. "I haven't seen you this excited since we left for Troy all those years ago."

Patroclus could not stop smiling. "We're going back, Eudorus! I never thought it would happen, yet here we are. I cannot wait to see Gil-galad again."

"Hold on to that enthusiasm, Patroclus," Achilles chided from behind them while tucking away a bundle of his own. "We still have a long journey ahead of us, and the going will be dangerous. For all we know, Lindon itself might no longer be safe."

But Patroclus rolled his deep blue eyes, incredulous, as they moved up to the ship's deck and were immediately met by a stiff sea breeze. "I highly doubt that, cousin. Gil-galad would never let it happen."

"He may no longer have a choice," Odysseus concurred gravely. "You must have seen for yourself how anxious he was when we last left, Patroclus, and I fear his circumstances have improved little since then."

The boy sighed; these were not the sort of things he wished to dwell on right now. Why did growing older seem to require seeing only the potential negative in a situation that should have otherwise been joyful? He changed the subject. "I wonder why Fingon and Maedhros aren't out here yet. They're usually awake long before the rest of us."

But the young Greek found his answer soon enough when the four comrades returned to the house and found Fingon pacing anxiously before the fire, wearing a far more troubled expression than any of his hosts had yet seen from him.

Patroclus balked in surprise. His first instincts told him that only a severe problem with Maedhros could have such an effect on Fingon, but the youth quickly berated himself for the mere thought. After all, was it even possible that there could be something seriously wrong with beings as invincible as their revered guests?

Odysseus' voice, however, maintained the appropriate measure of polite concern as he greeted the Elf. "Good morning, my lord. How fares your cousin?"

"As well as might be expected, thank you, and more determined than I have ever seen him. He is still resting now, or so I hope." Fingon drew a deep breath then, his pacing at a halt. "Maedhros has informed me that he is going to continue searching for Maglor on the journey north to Lindon – which means that he must go by land, despite its dangers and the increased duration of the trip."

He paused long enough for his hosts to ingest those words before continuing. "I know this must be a great inconvenience for you, especially after all the trouble you have gone through to prepare our way by sea. I am truly sorry, my friends, but he will not be swayed. Nor will I be parted from him."

"We would not ask you to be so." The Lord of the Myrmidons, although rightly taken aback by this admission, was no less resolute than Maedhros Feanorion in adhering to his own laid plans. "The road over land will indeed be perilous, but I only see that as more cause for all of us to travel it together, as originally planned. What is more, together we make a formidable force against any threat that might happen across our way. Only fools would dare attack a party of elite warriors such as ourselves."

"I agree," Odysseus concurred with a sage nod and a twinkle of youthful anticipation in his eye. "There can be no reason for the four of us to travel by ship while you two take the longer way. All of our provisions are packed and ready, so we need only take a day or two more to outfit horses for the journey."

Eudorus, for his unspoken part, was frustrated beyond expression that his comrades could so easily accommodate the sudden change of plans. Who were these foreigners, immortal or otherwise, to throw away nearly a month's worth of preparation on a whim? However, the crystal-eyed captain knew he was grossly out-voted in this regard, and he had certainly not survived this long as Achilles' second-in-command by opening his mouth in those many times when prudent silence was most fitting.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note:** My friends, I _finally _have an update for you! I'm so sorry, I know it's been a hellishly long wait. My exceedingly lame excuses are that I got willingly sidetracked in another fun fandom (cough, King Arthur, cough), and then this fight scene near the end of the chapter just gave me the hardest time coming together. I hate it when that happens! You will also note, if you look, that I've had great fun adding in appropriate little quotes at the beginning of each chapter, a habit I mean to continue for the remainder of this story. So, to anyone who's still out there, thank you for your saintly patience, and I do hope this update was worth the wait. Enjoy!

**Chapter 8**

_"Maedhros in time was healed; for the fire of life was hot within him, and his strength was of the ancient world, such as those possessed who were nurtured in Valinor. His body recovered from his torment and became hale, but the shadow of his pain was in his heart; and he lived to wield his sword with left hand more deadly than his right had been."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

Two days later, the long-awaited dawn of their departure finally arrived! The journey now was to be traversed by horseback, as covering such an immense distance on foot would take far too long. Fingon and Maedhros were given first pick of all the fine horses in Achilles' stables, save only his own black stallion; and they each picked young, unbroken horses whose spirits matched the fiery color of Maedhros' hair. While both steeds were shockingly compliant beneath their new masters, it was clear that their spirits had only been tamed by loyalty and were not completely broken.

Maedhros wore a red and silver cape that hung sideways to cover the right half of his body and leave the left fully exposed – perhaps to make himself a less obvious target to anyone of ill intent that they might meet along the road. Fingon's garments of silver and midnight blue, the colors of Fingolfin's house, only further increased his striking resemblance with his son.

They made good time, as the first several days of their journey passed without any remarkable incidents. More than anything, it was a quiet time in which Fingon and Maedhros could better reacquaint themselves with the land of Arda.

It was an unsettling experience, quite unlike anything the cousins had ever felt before. For while the ground beneath their horses' hooves was decidedly foreign to them, the whispers in the wind and the constant murmuring of the nearby waters were all strangely familiar – as though they had been recognized and welcomed back by a land of which they had no memory.

It was still the same world, beyond any question…but they did not recognize it, even for all the years they had both spent ruling and roaming far abroad as great lords and princes in ages past. A disquieting melancholy settled over both their hearts for a time as they realized how little their previous power amounted to now, in the present time and place.

Fingon guided his horse closer to his cousin's, freely acknowledging in his own spirit that he took no small amount of comfort in the other's presence. He then turned his head left, to the west, where white sea foam pounded in an endless roar against the rocky coast. The rise and fall of the azure waters was strangely mesmerizing…

He tore his gaze away from it, back to Maedhros, and commented in a low voice, "I know we Elves have always loved the Sea, but I don't recall ever being this…drawn to it before."

"We were not. Much indeed has changed, for all of the Elder race." Maedhros' face was somber, and Fingon knew his friend had felt it, too – the silent, haunting call that already beckoned them away across the Sea, and to all that lay beyond it. To the other Lands they had once called home.

* * *

True to his plan, Maedhros searched for Maglor alone at night while the others rested. He did not even stop to eat, at least not that Patroclus observed. The Elf was as relentless as a jealous Greek god bent on revenge, and apparently just as tireless.

On one such night, after they had been traveling for over a week, Patroclus joined Fingon beside the crackling fire of their camp. "Isn't he tired?"

The former prince knew without asking exactly to whom his companion was referring. "He does not need much rest, young one. The horses have greater need of it than he or I do."

"Then why did he leave you behind – again?"

Fingon grinned playfully. "To guard the camp, I imagine. After all, you know he could never entrust the task to even the finest of mortals."

Patroclus returned the smile, but it soon turned melancholy, and his blue eyes dropped down to the dust at his feet. "Why doesn't he trust us?"

Fingon's own cheerful expression faded fast, his response deliberate and slow. "I believe it has something to do with the battle in which I was first killed. If I judge my cousin correctly, it would seem that the treachery of Men played no small part in our sad defeat that day. I think he is not likely to trust anyone now, outside of his closest kin."

"And yet you still trust us," the boy spoke softly, looking up again. "Why?"

For a moment, Fingon the Valiant appeared almost sheepish. "I suppose I have always been one of the more trusting members in my family – many would say _too_ trusting." He let the silence linger for a long moment, and then sighed suddenly, as though rousing himself from a waking dream. "But far more importantly, I trust you for your friendship with my son. There is genuine love for him in your eyes when I hear you speak of him, Patroclus."

The youth allowed a gentle smile to once more grace his pensive countenance. "I cannot wait to see him again." And he meant it – more truly and deeply than he had ever meant anything before.

When Maedhros still had not returned by sunrise the next morning, and the others were preparing to set out again, Eudorus ventured, "Is there any chance your cousin might have gotten lost?"

But Fingon quickly shook his head. "No, none at all. Although these lands may be new to us, the stars are still very much the same. He will not be lost."

"And even though the bluffs are treacherous, I don't think we need to worry about Maedhros losing his footing," contributed Odysseus as he threw his saddle up on to his horse's back.

Sure enough, before another quarter hour had passed, Maedhros returned, and the little band of travelers moved on. The older Elf's proud countenance and broad shoulders carried no sign of fatigue, unless it was the intangible mental and emotional weariness of a long quest still unfulfilled.

* * *

More days of riding passed in the same manner, and before long even Patroclus could discern just from the changing topography that they had moved well beyond the boundaries of Greece. The mountains were certainly different – darker, jagged, and more harsh – while even the Sea had surrendered its brilliant blue hues in favor of the greenish-gray tint more reminiscent of Lindon's chilling tides.

Late one afternoon, when the sun had sunk halfway between sky's zenith and horizon's edge, Maedhros abruptly announced with little ado, "We are being followed. I don't think the natives are too pleased by our presence here."

"We only wish to pass through," Odysseus proclaimed unnecessarily; but already his eyes, like those of all his comrades, were scanning the dry, rugged landscapes to the east with great distrust.

Eudorus, though he himself saw little to make him feel uneasy, still loosened his sword in its sheath. The smooth bronze of the hilt was both familiar and welcome against his callused palm. He'd known from the outset that it would have been unrealistic to expect they could make this extended journey without some conflict along the way; and personally, he was quite happy to trust the super-heightened senses of their Elven comrades in matters such as this.

"Well, I hope they don't mean to keep it up for long," Achilles muttered darkly. "If they're going to attack us, I wish they'd just get on with it!"

Fingon turned his head to once more survey their situation and said grimly, "I think that you may have your wish here very soon, my friend."

The party halted, and each warrior turned his horse eastward to await the oncoming enemy that thus far only two of them could see. But slowly and steadily the mortals themselves could then discern the dark outlines of men approaching as their loose formation undulated over the jagged rocks. A growing cloud of dust and sand likewise announced their coming.

"How many?" Odysseus asked with a glance at Fingon.

"I would guess about two dozen, maybe more," the Elf replied.

"We can take them," Achilles put in with firm determination. "They can't possibly match us for skill, so just stay close together and watch each others' backs until they finally break and run."

The Myrmidon lord cast a surreptitious look in Maedhros' direction, half expecting the latter to assert his own authority by disputing the proposed strategy. But all the Elven prince had to add was a suggestion that they dismount, so they could fight in closer quarters where it would be easier to remain in tight formation. He set the example, and the others readily complied with weapons at the ready.

By now the detailed features of their approaching foes was visible to all, and Achilles' trained warrior eyes noted much. The foreigners' weapons consisted predominantly of swords and small battle axes, although a few near the front also brandished long halberds. Their skin was darker than a Greek's, though only a sliver of natural pigment was visible through the black wrappings that encased each warrior's head and face up to the bridge of his nose. Achilles might have thought their eccentric garb better suited to a people dwelling further inland to the east, but at the moment, his personal opinions on fashion were of little consequence.

Before long, the oncoming force of hostility drew to halt no more than twenty feet from the band of travelers. Apparently the newcomers deemed their numbers alone would be sufficient to handle any resistance from their quarry; Achilles knew they believed wrongly.

One particular soldier, dressed more finely than the rest, stepped forward away from his comrades to address the smaller party. His tones were unmistakably forceful and demanding, but the foreign words were lost on the ears of his listeners. He tried again when there was no response, his diplomatic patience evidently wearing thin, and the men behind him shifted weapons almost eagerly in their hands.

"We mean no harm to you or your lands," Odysseus gently assured him in the Common Tongue, hoping to establish some means of communication before a seemingly inevitable fight broke out.

But it did no good. The native commander was now gesturing rather violently that the trespassers lay down their weapons, a request that was immediately understood and at once defied. And a sharp cry back to his troops was all it took to unleash their onslaught like a river breaking forth from a dam.

Patroclus brought up his shield and drew his sword, mimicking the actions of his fellow Greeks as their attackers rapidly bore down on them; Fingon and Maedhros already had their swords in hand, and the youth allowed himself just a few spare seconds to observe the weapons more closely. They were of a different make than the majority he had seen in Lindon – longer and no doubt much, much older. A flutter of anticipation flipped through his stomach as he realized he was even more excited to see those swords in action than he was to be fighting again himself.

And he was by no means disappointed. Grace found a new definition in the movements of the two Elves, and the sight nearly stole Patroclus' breath away. Their approach in battle differed greatly from what he remembered of Gil-galad's sweeping strokes with Aiglos; but when the princes fought together side by side, it was like two pieces of a puzzle coming flawlessly together, allowing no room for danger in between. They knew each other in this setting as intimately as any pair of lovers, a unity of mind and motion that Patroclus knew even he and Achilles could never hope to rival without years more of continued practice together. Many, countless years, such as was the indefinite lifespan accorded to the Eldar.

Yet these two composed a threat far greater than anything their attackers had anticipated, and the strange men were hopeless to stand against such powers of another age. Maedhros especially terrorized their ranks in a sort of vindictive rage; and as he watched from a distance, Patroclus guessed that there was easily as much strength solely in that Elf's left arm as there was in his own entire body.

Unfortunately, he had grown a bit too impressed and became distracted from the more urgent matter directly in front of him. Hard-pressed by his foes, he was quickly surrounded and separated from his comrades, and their sheer numbers overwhelmed him. Perhaps Achilles or an Elf could have escaped such odds, but he, Patroclus, was neither.

They had him completely subdued in a matter of moments. He'd lashed out with his feet when both his arms had been hopelessly restrained, but the resistance had been short-lived, at best. Now he was hard-bound and gagged, being dragged roughly away by a small band of their attackers. He didn't know where they were taking him, or how far away his friends would be when the destination was finally reached. But at last they arrived at a crude camp set inside a depression in the landscape, surrounded on all sides by high-reaching boulders. Patroclus could see nothing of the battle now. What had become of the others?

Panicked, the youth fought to sit up from where he lay stiffly in the midst of his captors, but every jerking movement he made against his bonds was met with a stern cuff that forced him back to his still position on the ground. Did they mean to hold him here as leverage in negotiations, should Achilles and his friends emerge victorious?

It was difficult to say at first, as the exotic language of these men was nothing like the Common Tongue, and in all ways different from the musical Elvish speech; but when he heard them laugh, the youth could guess the intent of his captors easily enough. The fact that he was still alive testified to that in plenty, as did the vicious-looking whips and branding irons that lay just within his sight. Patroclus tried to swallow as the terror gripped him, and a cold chill sent violent tremors down his spine. He had often heard tales of prisoners who would beg for Death to take them swiftly, yet only now did he understand why.

He could not call for help, and surely there were none nearby to have seen his plight. Or so he thought. For Maedhros, coming up silently among the long shadows of the rocks, assailed the men in their own camp and slew them swiftly, until not even one straggler remained to escape the slaughter. His lethal attack had been as silent as a panther's prowl, and swifter than an eagle's plunge. Previously, Patroclus had always regarded his cousin as the epitome of efficiency in combat; he would have to revise that sentiment now.

As soon as the last groans of the dying had been silenced, the Elf then knelt down to skillfully sever the prisoner's bonds with the edge of his long sword.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, and Patroclus shook his head, his heart still racing, as he gratefully yanked off the gag himself and massaged his chafed and aching wrists.

Out of habit, the young Greek waited to be offered a hand up, only to remember all too late that Maedhros had none to give. So he hauled himself up shakily to his feet, and the Elf eyed him quizzically, tilting his head slightly to one side.

"Are you sure you're all right?" He sounded almost amused, although still rightly concerned.

Patroclus scowled back at him, feeling much like an incompetent fifteen-year-old again. "I'm fine."

"Good. Then we should be getting back to the others."

They moved on together in silence, until Maedhros actually deigned to speak again.

"There is no shame in your fear."

From behind his back, the young Myrmidon bristled. "Who said I was afraid?"

"It is written all over you. What is more, you are right to fear captivity over death."

Was that actual empathy in his voice then, or did Patroclus just imagine it? "You were captured once."

"Aye, and did you think that in my death I had forgotten it?"

All pretense of camaraderie dissipated in the sharp reply, and Patroclus winced apologetically. Maedhros could be so blatantly intimidating at times – no attempts whatsoever at concealing his inherent power, as Gil-galad and Maglor had done.

"No, I…I'm sorry. I only meant that I can't imagine how any Men or Orcs were ever strong enough to subdue you, even if they were stronger long ago."

The russet prince laughed, but it was a cheerless sound. "They weren't strong enough, and never could be. If Orcs and renegade mortals such as these are all you know of our Enemy, Patroclus, then you are blessed in your ignorance. The Dark One has many foul monsters in his service, great and terrible; and those you've seen are perhaps the least of all."

The young Greek pursed his lips nervously before posing his next query. He probably shouldn't be asking this, at least not of Maedhros himself; but then again, he never had learned to bite down on his damnable curiosity.

"How long were you up there? Up on the mountain, before Fingon found you?"

Maedhros halted for the answer, his eyebrows raised as looked back over his shoulder at his companion. "In the reckoning of the Sun? They tell me it was thirty-five years."

Patroclus was too amazed, and grieved, to say anything in reply as he struggled to resume following. Odysseus truly had been right back in Troy to tell them that Elves were far more enduring and difficult to slay than Men. The soreness of his own two wrists seemed suddenly insignificant now, and it rankled the youth's pride to know that he had even given thought to such minimal pain.

Trailing in the wake of Maedhros Feanorion proved no easy task, for he moved very swiftly and in perfect silence; it was often easiest to just follow the bright color of his fiery red hair as they weaved back across the uneven coastal terrain.

But as they hurried to rejoin their companions, Patroclus suddenly recalled Maedhros' words: _In the reckoning of the Sun. _How very strange. For by what else in this world could one possibly reckon the passage of time?


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Okay, I think I'm becoming disproportionately happy when I get a new chapter posted for this fic nowadays. I mean, I knew it would be an epic endeavor when I first started, but it certainly has proven to be taxing on the creative literary energies. It's still amazingly fun, of course - it's just taking me a good long while, so thank you tons to everyone who's stuck with me through it all! Special kudos to **Torilei, mangacrack, Trollmela Angeline, GoldenHorde, **and **halberd **for the lovely reviews you all left on the last chapter. And now, we're on to Chapter 9 - hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 9**

_"For other foul creatures of spider form had dwelt there since the days of the delving of Angband, and she mated with them, and devoured them; and even after Ungoliant herself departed, and went whither she would into the forgotten south of the world, her offspring abode there and wove their hideous webs."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

By the time Maedhros and Patroclus were reunited with their comrades, Fingon and the other Greeks had already moved far away from the gruesome remains of their antagonists. Any survivors of the conflict – if indeed there were any – had long since fled.

Achilles was the first to happily mark their coming, for he had been ill at ease ever since the discovery of his cousin's absence; however, he had hardly expected to see the boy returning in the wake of their most temperamental traveling companion. Maedhros distanced himself from the young Greek as soon as they had joined their friends, choosing yet again to bind himself to the more familiar company of his own dear cousin.

"Where were you?" Achilles demanded at once as he drew near to inspect Patroclus for any sign of injury. He knew the boy would resent the harried concern borne on his words, but that was a small matter. The Lord of the Myrmidons would have worried over the fate of any of his men, had they likewise vanished in the midst of a battle against strange foes. He hadn't worried about Maedhros, though; in hindsight, he realized he hadn't even noticed the Elf was missing. Could there have been some connection between the two coinciding separations?

Standing an arm's length away, Patroclus withstood the well-intentioned onslaught of his cousin's scrutiny, all the while bracing himself for the humiliation that would surely come of having his capture inevitably revealed. He would be so ashamed when his lifelong teacher knew of it, especially if the older man should also learn that it had only happened because he had been childish enough to let himself get distracted. He could hardly have prevented it, though. Surely all of them must have noticed!

"Patroclus, what's wrong?" Achilles could read guilt in the boy's face, but that only confused him more. What could have possibly happened this past hour?

"I'm sure he only regrets that you were not there also."

Achilles started – not at hearing the voice itself, but upon recognizing the speaker.

"I pursued a number of the men who attempted to flee back eastward," Maedhros continued nonchalantly, as though he was merely discussing the color of the sky that particular evening. "Your cousin accompanied me, Achilles, and I am pleased to report that none of them escaped us."

"Really?" Fingon's admiring eyes traveled from the young Greek to Maedhros, and then back again. "I commend you for keeping pace with my cousin, Patroclus! Even I have not been able to do so on some occasions."

Personally, Patroclus had been stunned speechless by this unexpected intervention, yet he did not miss the knowing look of mutual conspiracy that Maedhros briefly sent his way. And so he made no contradiction.

Unseen beside him, however, Achilles' sharp eyes narrowed in suspicion. Though he refrained from voicing any of his doubts, he knew Patroclus far too well to believe the boy capable of such a feat; even he himself, renowned as a great runner, would have been hard-pressed to keep pace over this terrain with any tall, sure-footed Elf.

"Was it really necessary to go after them?" he asked instead.

Maedhros' answer was immediate. "I don't like leaving my enemies alive."

Achilles had no answer for the unyielding coldness of that retort, and he felt the air next to him tremble as Patroclus shuddered slightly. Had Maedhros really scared the boy that badly? Or had Patroclus just been so deeply affected by what he'd seen?

The great warrior frowned. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his blunt assessment of Maedhros early on…

But the party of travelers had their own needs to tend to before moving on to find a more suitable place to settle for the night. Odysseus had a notable gash on his left arm from where a halberd had skimmed over the top of his shield, and Eudorus' right foot was a painful, bloody mess. Someone wearing a heavily armored boot had stepped on it during the melee, and his soft Greek sandal had offered no protection whatsoever. The man stubbornly insisted he could still walk on it at great need, but he was nonetheless grateful to be mounted and riding again.

As Achilles bound up Odysseus' arm, his mind still dwelt on the matchless display of skill he had witnessed earlier that very day. For he, too, had observed Fingon and Maedhros during the battle, albeit more discreetly than some others; and even now he continued to mark their every move of calculated grace with new awareness. He also noticed Eudorus giving their newest friends a wider berth, though his attention was drawn to them more often than before. After all, Achilles reflected, this _was_ the first time Eudorus had ever seen Elves in earnest combat – much less two of the most revered warriors in all their immortal history.

When they had resumed riding again the next morning, Achilles approached Fingon. He knew the time for him to talk alone with Maedhros would come, but it was not now.

"It seems you and your cousin have lost none of your skill," he commented.

It was a casual observation, but one that would inexorably point the conversation in the direction he wished it to go; and Fingon, apparently, held no objection.

"In a way, that almost surprised me," the latter confessed softly. "I remember everything I ever learned of battle, and my strength is not at all diminished. I know Maedhros can say much the same. Once a sword is in our hands, it is as though we had never left this place."

"May I ask who is the better of the two of you?"

The raven head nodded deeply. "You may, indeed. My cousin and I have practiced together for so long, I can hold my own against him better than most anyone; but Maedhros still has the upper hand between us. Nine times out of ten, I say he would beat me."

Achilles permitted himself a small smile at the description that could have so easily been applied to Patroclus and himself. "Is Maedhros the best you've ever seen, then?"

Fingon did not even need a moment to consider. "Almost, but no. That title I could bestow only upon Fingolfin, my own sire; for in his time, he achieved more alone than the rest of us could combined, after he had passed. He was an unrivaled warrior, a shrewd tactician, and a most wise ruler. I'm sure his equal shall never be seen again in Middle Earth."

And yet again, the lord of the Myrmidons found himself floundering in a conversation where there was nothing more to say. There was always more to learn about these ancient people – more to the story than had yet been told. Always more that had happened _before. _Was there even a beginning to it all?

He soon concluded that it was just another inevitable side effect of immortality.

* * *

Another week passed. The days were gradually growing cooler as they moved farther north, but it was a small change in comparison to the evenings. Gone were the warm, pleasant summer nights of Greece, now to be replaced by a chill dampness that clung like dew to every limb after the sun had hid his shining face. But one night, the travelers unanimously decided to forego the comforting light and warmth of their customary fire.

They were camped on the fringes of a dark forest that had bordered the coast for many miles, with still no end in sight. The darkness was darker here, and the cold colder, so that even Achilles and his friends could tell something was horribly amiss. A bitter salt wind blew inland off the Sea, stirring up the angry waters and churning a host of ominous black clouds which prophesied a storm; but still they lit no fire.

"Something foul lives here," Odysseus finally spoke, voicing the sentiments of all present as his anxious gaze was lost amongst the gnarled and twisted shadows of the trees.

But Maedhros, while very much alert, was hardly daunted. "Let it come."

Eudorus then came up beside his Ithacan friend and remarked, with a subtle nod at the taller Elf, "He's not afraid of much at all, is he?"

"Not of anything that could bring harm to himself," Odysseus replied with a grim chuckle. "I imagine he has already encountered nearly every such thing."

As usual, they soon settled down to try to sleep; but the feeling of unease was so potent that, for the first time since their departure from Phthia, Maedhros did not leave them to look for Maglor. Rather, feeling certain that his brother would never choose to stay near such a dark place as this, he volunteered to take the first watch of the night. Fingon remained awake as well, speaking in low tones with his cousin, while the Greeks had faith enough in their sentinels to drift into a restless repose.

It seemed not long, however, before Patroclus was awakened by Eudorus stirring at his elbow. When the youth blinked and looked up, he saw that the elder warrior was already on his feet, alert and limber. And yet again, Patroclus berated himself for lacking that innate warrior's sense that his cousin and the other Myrmidons were privy to, even in slumber. Achilles had even teased him about it recently on their journey, saying that his naïve little cousin "still slept like an innocent lamb in the fold, happily heedless of any danger."

Indeed, he was the last one to wake now, as well. Fingon and Maedhros stood a distance apart, closer to the edge of the forest than their companions. Both Elves were tall, erect, and tense. Though they did not move, they still appeared more ready for battle than Patroclus had yet seen them to be.

"Did they see something?" he whispered to Eudorus, who was already well accustomed to humoring the boy's questions after many trying years of practice.

"They must have." Even with their heads bent so close, Eudorus' words were scarcely audible. "I've no idea what, but I'll trust their eyes over my own in a place like this."

Then something moved in the utter darkness – an ominous bustle of activity that could almost be _felt_, rather than seen or heard. Patroclus took an involuntary step backward, behind Eudorus. He would much rather face those hostile men they had encountered further south again than these mysterious shadows that made his skin crawl. All three of the other Greeks, including Achilles, looked as though they shared his opinion on that subject. How did Fingon and Maedhros remain so collected?

Before fate had whisked him away to his cousin's care in Phthia, Patroclus had, like most of the other small boys in his village, taken a certain pleasure in tormenting the young girls of their acquaintance with a well-placed spider or three. Now he knew what those same unfortunate girls must have dreamt during the nights following such awful pranks.

For the shadows began to slowly take shape as they silently drew nearer to the edge of trees by where the travelers had camped. The first things to materialize were the legs – like a forest of limber saplings, bristling with prickly black hairs. It was both sickening and terrifying. Then the rest of the bodies emerged, round and massive and altogether grotesque. And what little light was to be had in the dead of night glistened in reflection off a host of sickly spider eyes.

As soon as the beasts had come near enough to be recognized, they halted and drew their creeping limbs in close to their monstrous abdomens, ready to flee or strike like a bolt of sudden lightning.

Patroclus guessed there to be three of four of the arachnid giants; but his eyesight, especially in such poor light, was less than trustworthy. He stole another glance at Fingon and Maedhros, observing with distant wonder how they still stood like two living memories of light in the all-encompassing darkness.

But the unworldly image was not to last. With a cry that shattered the stillness of the moment like a mighty thunderbolt from before the years of Men, Maedhros suddenly sprang forward, drawing his sword like a flash of fire, and Fingon followed him. The spiders scattered before the intense ferocity of that assault, preferring instead to draw the battle deeper into the familiarity of their web-infested forest. Soon all of the combatants were swallowed up in the maw of ancient trees.

And so in the space of only two heartbeats, the four Greeks abruptly found themselves very much alone, staring at one another in dumbfounded silence.

Eudorus spoke first, his voice still a nervous whisper. "I hadn't expected that; they were not so aggressive the last time we saw them fight."

"But still, we cannot leave them to do battle alone against those…_monsters._ I had not even known such things existed." The unusual tremor in Achilles' words merited a few worried stares from his companions, but in truth, each of them felt the same cold terror stirring in his heart.

Nevertheless, they all followed suit when the Lord of the Myrmidons drew his own sword and set off in the aid of their Elven comrades. But by now, Maedhros and Fingon were already deep within the heart of the forest, spurred on by such a rage and hatred that the Greeks could never share. For this was an old feud, older even than the memories of many of their own immortal people.

It was impossible to keep up with the Elven warriors, much less gain any ground to locate them; and despite their best efforts to avoid getting separated, it was not long before the Greeks were all lost in a maze of webs and endless darkness. Patroclus, for instance, thought that he had been following directly behind his cousin; but in the blink of an eye, a shadow passed between them, and Achilles had simply vanished.

The young Myrmidon froze, battling down his surge of panic. He was tempted to call out for Eudorus or any of the others, but at the same time, he feared drawing unwanted attention to his location. So, whether it was wise or foolish on his part, he pressed onward, doing his best to move quietly while listening attentively for any indication of his friends.

It was only early autumn, yet already the bare black trees reached out to snag his skin and clothing like the hands of an arboreal skeleton. But worse by far were the webs, as enormous and hideous as the beasts that wove them. Patroclus yanked his arm free of one with frightened gasp and shuddered violently. Lightning flashed, and the approaching thunder rumbled overhead; it was high time to be gone from this wicked place!

Offering a quick prayer for guidance, he turned around to hopefully retrace his steps back toward the coastline. He could see no glimpse of sky through the massive canopy of trees above him, so navigation was impossible. Instinct would have to see him through.

As he groped and stumbled along, Patroclus again wondered what had become of his colleagues. A chorus of chilling shrieks in the distance testified that the righteous fury of Fingon and Maedhros had finally caught up with the spiders, minimizing considerably the danger that was left to the rest of their comrades. But then another sound reached his ears, and the boy stopped, positively mortified. He had never, in all his life, expected to hear such a thing.

It was his cousin's voice – calling for help.

Blind with sudden panic, Patroclus at once took off in the direction of the cries. He could only hope that Achilles' voice would continue to guide him, and that nothing with less than friendly intentions would arrive there first. The youngest Myrmidon pushed on through the undergrowth and protruding tree limbs until at last he emerged into a sort of clearing, the far side of which was dominated by a huge, gauzy spider web.

And there struggling in the midst of it was Achilles. He was thoroughly stuck, that much was obvious. The greatest of all Greek warriors was suspended upside down, caught and held by a sticky, tangled mess of web fibers. And all his futile struggling just made him look more and more ridiculous. He still held his sword securely in hand, as indeed all good warriors should; but his arm was stuck, so the ready weapon was rendered absolutely worthless.

Now rooted to the ground in shock, Patroclus bit down on his lip to hold back the fit of laughter that quite seriously threatened to escape past his lips. Not that it was funny situation, by any means; if any of the spiders returned, the two Myrmidons would be in deadly peril. But it was simply the sight of the mighty Achilles hanging upside down in a giant spider web, helpless and frustrated beyond expression, that the youth found so hopelessly amusing.

Just then, Odysseus burst into the clearing as well; and as soon as he caught sight of Achilles, the royal Ithacan made no effort to stop the riotous laughter that instantly overtook him. Of course, his roaring guffaws did nothing to aid the efforts of poor Patroclus, who could soon contain his own laughter no longer. And Achilles himself, now well alerted to their presence on account of the hysteria, was livid. He was shouting at them, of course, but his numerous threats about, "when I get down from here, etc." were lost on the ears of his distracted comrades.

Finally, and thankfully for Achilles, Eudorus had heard the commotion and painstakingly limped over to their position as quickly as he was able, still arriving late because of the lingering injury to his foot. The soldier's shock was no less than that of his fellows upon seeing his commander's predicament; but unlike them, he still had sense enough to realize the danger and hastened to cut Achilles down. Patroclus and Odysseus at once moved forward to help him in his efforts, as many hands were needed to efficiently cut through the webs without getting their own swords caught in the same manner as Achilles' weapon. They all continued to chuckle throughout the entirety of the work, though – even Eudorus.

Once the four Greeks had successfully navigated their way out of the dank woods, their next laborious task was to cleanse their fearless leader of the obnoxious, clinging mess. Patroclus thought back to the largest spider web he had ever had the misfortune of walking into, and he imagined the trauma must now be immeasurably worse for his cousin, who was at that moment lamenting over how long it would inevitably take to get the stuff out of his tawny hair. There was simply no good way to go about it, and they were still hard at the task when Fingon and Maedhros at last emerged from the dark line of trees to rejoin them.

Though blessedly unscathed, the Elves were hardly a pretty sight themselves, as might have been expected. But they were coated rather with spider gore, and while the sight and smell of it was enough to make a person gag, it could at least be washed clean with minimal effort.

"Do you think the rest of the journey will be like this, with some strange new enemy trying to kill us every hundred miles or so?" Eudorus idly pondered aloud as he peeled another long sticky string away from behind Achilles' ear.

"I doubt it," Fingon answered him with a grim smile. "The Lord of the Waters has ever been friendly to the Elves, and so creatures of darkness will rarely come near the Sea, unless they've truly no alternative."

"I wish someone had told those spiders that," Achilles grumbled petulantly. "I'll be spitting out cobwebs for a week now!"


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Hello, everyone, and thanks as always for your patience with this fic. This was yet another chapter (of many) where I had the bulk of it written or figured out, but adding in filler and connecting the dots, etc. just took me forever. Thank you's also to those of you who have favorited or added this story to your alerts, and special kudos to **Angeline **and **Trollmela**for their encouraging reviews on the last chapter. So now here is Chapter 10 for your literary enjoyment, or so I at least hope. Until next time, my friends!

**Chapter 10**

_"The oath of Feanor and the evil deeds that it had wrought did injury to the design of Maedhros, and he had less aid than should have been…But in the west Fingon, ever the friend of Maedhros, took counsel with Himring, and in Hithlum the Noldor and the Men of the house of Hador prepared for war."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

In time, even Achilles was finally cleansed of the encounter with the giant spiders, and the discussion then turned to their latest predicament. For although they were still on the borders of the dark-infested forest, the imminent thunderstorm was far too near to consider moving their camp farther along to the north. The trees themselves might have offered some protection from the elements, but there was still too much risk associated with entering the woods. Better by far to face the fury of the storm than those monsters descended of ancient Darkness.

And furious it was. Despite all the storms that had assailed the rugged coasts of their home in Phthia over the years, Patroclus couldn't recall the last time he had actually trembled before the wrath of one. Until now. Never before had he felt so exposed and vulnerable before the violence of a tempest! He had always been inside a shelter of some sort, even if it was nothing more than a tent made of animal skins.

A mere four years ago, Achilles doubtless would have taken extra pains to ensure his cousin's meager comfort against the gale; but this time he did no such thing. In part, the tactful neglect assured Patroclus that his guardian was coming to accept him more and more as an able-bodied man; yet there was still just enough of a child in him to miss those concerned attentions which had been part of his life for over a decade.

As it was, the travelers sat enveloped in their cloaks and huddled together in a tight circle, with their horses gathered on one side and a cluster of large boulders on the other, standing as a barrier between them and the tumultuous Sea.

But Maedhros was not with them. Despite the danger, he had still left on foot before the breaking of the storm to search for Maglor. Only Fingon had tried in vain to gently dissuade him from such madness.

"Please, Maitimo," he had reasoned, "searching now cannot avail you, for surely even your brother must seek shelter on a night like this!"

Yet Maedhros, as resolute as ever in his so-far hopeless quest, had merely responded, "I agree. That is why I must look for him in places of shelter."

And so the eldest son of Feanor battled all night through the thrashing winds and the driving rain. With streams of water running unheeded down his pale face, Maedhros felt another twinge of guilt pluck at his heart, and he hardened his soul against it. Such was his way now in response to those unwanted and unhelpful sentiments. For while some might call it selfish of him to expose Fingon, and perhaps even the others, to greater dangers than they would have otherwise encountered traveling by ship, Maedhros personally could not find it within himself to regret the decision.

A sea voyage also would have remarkably shortened the amount of time Fingon had to wait to be reunited with his son; but on the other hand, if they had not come by land, what chance could there be of Maedhros' own reunion with Maglor? He simply had no choice but to press on. Just as Fingon had not forsaken him on that sheer mountainside all those millennia ago, he could not and _would_ not abandon the only brother who'd been by his side until the bitter end.

So determined that Maglor must have taken refuge from the storm if he chanced to be nearby, Maedhros thoroughly investigated every hidden cave and secluded alcove in which a grown Elf might have sought out shelter. He was so intent in his searching that it seemed only a moment before the feel of coming dawn enticed him as it always did to turn around and rejoin the others.

But this time he did not turn back.

* * *

The maelstrom was naught but a memory when morning finally arrived, and the sky at last was clearing to reveal rosy fingers of light poking up over the eastern horizon. A host of long, thin clouds stretched out high above the travelers, their shadowed undersides reminding Patroclus of how a fleet of ships must look to a swimmer underwater.

Collectively, the four Greeks could scarcely be concerned by Maedhros' continued absence when he had already proven himself wont to vanish and reappear with little or no warning. Rather, the true surprise came when Fingon mounted his horse and suggested with little ado that they leave the camp without waiting for Maedhros to return.

"My cousin will be to the north," he explained succinctly. "We can bring his horse with us and find him along the way as we travel."

Nevertheless, they still rode at a good pace for over an hour before finally catching up to the stubborn red-headed Elf in question. Maedhros marked their approach from afar and mounted his returned steed without a word when they had drawn near. Then, refusing to so much as glance either to the right or to the left, he immediately pulled out in front to lead the party, as though he were already anxious for them to reach their next stop so he could resume his search. The relentless determination with which he urged his horse, and therefore those behind him, to greater speeds than usual also suggested that he had little interest in the journey itself.

But Fingon lingered behind him and watched his cousin's back as they rode, looking uncommonly sad.

* * *

Twilight hung suspended in the western sky as the travelers settled into their next camp, but Maedhros stood apart, tall and silent, with his face to the Sea. At any moment he would leave to begin his nightly searching, and Achilles knew he must move quickly if he wished to take advantage of this opportunity. While many would not have called the act particularly wise, the son of Peleus firmly believed it to be necessary. So he wordlessly drew up alongside the Elf and looked straight on ahead, following the other's level gaze out over the waters.

It was not long before he spoke, though he could not even be certain he would receive an answer. "For what glory did you fight, all those years ago?"

"Glory?" Maedhros' reply resonated with disgust. "I have never fought for that."

"Surely for honor, then?"

The Elf snorted softly, and suddenly he seemed as one swallowed up in the depths of memory, or lost on the path of forgotten dreams. "It is difficult to fight for honor when you have none left to defend."

Achilles thought back to the conversation of his first encounter with Hector, Prince of Troy.

"Another great warrior once told me that only children and fools fight for honor – that he was somehow the nobler in fighting to defend his country. I respected him, yet his words have done little to change my mind on that account." He glanced sideways at his tall companion. "So why did you fight, then?"

Maedhros' eyes grew cold. "For revenge." His voice was low and menacing, and Achilles shuddered to hear it, like an icy tendril from the past slowly creeping up and down his battle-hardened limbs.

"We made war against the gods themselves…and bitterly did we pay for our folly. Pride, I suppose, was at stake there, and of necessity we defended fiercely our lands, our homes, our kin. But deep at heart, it was ever a war of vengeance and hatred for our Enemy, a battle to reclaim what we had lost."

His voice grew even softer. "Some forgot that, and dearly were they reminded of it."

But what that "reminder" had been Maedhros would not say, and Achilles did not think it was his place to ask. He wasn't sure he even wanted to know.

The Elf went on. "We may have much in common, Achilles, but you remind me more of one of my own brothers, whom we called 'The Fair'."

"And is that supposed to be a compliment?"

A wry smile twisted the former prince's handsome features. "Not at all."

Achilles chuckled in an attempt to keep the mood from becoming too oppressive. "He was a troublemaker, then?"

"Hmph." Maedhros shook his fiery head. "It would have been bad enough if he were content simply to disrupt matters within our own household; unfortunately, he and some of the others had a distinct talent for stirring up dissension everywhere they went. I can tell you their habits were of little help to me later on when I sought to secure alliances with the other Elven kingdoms of our day."

There stretched a quiet pause after that, until Achilles broached a new subject. "I never did learn what really happened when you and Patroclus disappeared during that first battle in the south."

It wasn't a direct question, yet Maedhros still humored him with an enigmatic answer. "If your cousin has not seen fit to tell you the truth of that day, then I see no reason why I should."

"Then won't you at least tell me if I owe you thanks for saving his life, or merely his pride?"

An indifferent shrug answered. "Both, I imagine. But truly, Achilles, I have ended enough lives in my time that the saving of one hardly merits any gratitude."

A puzzled frown creased the Myrmidon Lord's brow. "I think it does. Whatever your motives may have been, such an act is certainly more than I would have expected of you when we first set off on this adventure."

"Please, do not dwell on it too much, for I would not have you think too well or too ill of me. I have seen, and played, enough facades over the years that now I am content to simply be Maedhros, for better or for worse." The Elf sighed. "But if you really do wish to thank me, I will ask only this: let your cousin keep the dignity I have preserved for him, and do not tell him of this conversation."

"As you wish." Achilles slowly bowed his head to acknowledge the request, but when he looked up again, Maedhros was already gone.

* * *

Later that same night, while Fingon was off tending the horses, the Greek warriors again sat together reflecting on the day's events. And on their guests.

"Do you notice they never really ask for our help?" Patroclus asked the question of no one in particular, but it was the Ithacan on his right who answered him.

"If they do not ask for our assistance, then we can well assume that they don't need it. At this point, I suppose all they truly need is each other."

Eudorus then commented, "Fingon's loyalty is remarkable. He follows his cousin without question, and I don't know whether he should be commended or condemned for it."

"There have been many in support of both arguments over the years." Odysseus paused, contemplating, and slowly turned his head. "Would you have followed him, Achilles?"

The Myrmidon's golden head jerked upward from where he had been staring off into the fire's dancing flames. "You mean Maedhros? I am no Elf, nor was I there in the days of his leadership, so it's difficult to say. Yet he is such a compelling leader that one can't help but feel drawn to follow him…"

Even as his previous thought trailed off, Achilles carefully regarded Patroclus out of the corner of his eye and suddenly inquired, "Does Maedhros frighten you, cousin?"

The youth offered a nervous chuckle before replying. "Not usually – at least, not as long as I know he isn't angry with me."

The response was not nearly as direct as Achilles had been hoping for, but all the same, he was content enough to let it be. After all, he could not fault Patroclus for wanting to internalize what he deemed to be his own fears and struggles; Achilles likely had his own influence over the boy to thank for that.

"It's curious," Odysseus remarked abruptly, prodding the fire into a flare of sparks with a spare log. "As I learned about them when I was younger, I was always given the impression that Fingon was the more impetuous of the two – almost recklessly so. And now that I've met them, that perception has not been entirely disappointed…but after observing them, I do rather wonder if Maedhros is not as impulsive as his cousin in many ways. I would not have guessed it of him."

Eudorus shrugged, not bothering to look up from the uneven ground as he next spoke. "Maybe caution is not so necessary because he has less to lose now than he ever did before."

An oppressive, pensive silence was the only answer to his remark.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, this chapter is finally complete! Apparently all I had to do was sit down for an hour or two and simply force myself to finish it. We'll see if I remember that next time, now won't we? But I believe special gratitude is due to my beloved reviewers **Trollmela****, Angeline, MercysFoundaWayforMe, **and **Crimson Cupcake**. You all are truly an inspiration! So now I do hope you enjoy this next chapter - a sort of early Christmas present, if you will. Love you all!

**Chapter 11**

_"Then in defiance of the Orcs, who cowered still in the dark vaults beneath the earth, he took his harp and sang a song of Valinor that the Noldor made of old…and his voice rang in the mournful hollows that had never heard before aught save cries of fear and woe. Thus Fingon found what he sought. For suddenly above him far and faint his song was taken up, and a voice answering called to him. Maedhros it was that sang amid his torment."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

Fingon the Valiant had never been renowned for his patience, and the duration of their journey was beginning to weigh heavily upon him. He had known from the outset that it would be long, but clearly he had underestimated his own impatience. The nearer he came to seeing Ereinion again, the farther away the meeting seemed, and the more his anxiety grew.

His restlessness must have shown, for even Patroclus had noticed and offered such meager attempts at comfort as he could concerning Gil-galad. His cousin likewise addressed him later on the same issue, aside from their mortal companions.

"It was sound judgment sending him to Cirdan for protection," assured Maedhros calmly. "For I know of none wiser than the Shipwright, and he raised your child well. However, it did grieve me that the son should grow up knowing so little of his father."

"Then let us pray he likes what he sees, now that he is grown and can judge my character for himself."

Fingon seemed anxious to let the subject drop after that statement, but Maedhros would have none of it.

"And if he does not approve? What if you don't find favor in the eyes of the new King, cousin? I know I shall not."

"But you are not his father! Maitimo, surely you understand?"

"I understand that you worry yourself over things that are long since past, and cannot now be altered. It is enough simply that we are here, for whatever purpose yet unknown; let Ereinion make of that what he will."

Fingon's shoulders drooped as he ceased his restless pacing and forced himself to draw in slow, steady breaths of the cool air. His eyes searched his cousin's face again, wondering if the time was now right for another conversation that he knew must inevitably take place.

"I appreciate your concerns, Russandol…but my greater fears right now are only for you."

Maedhros' tall frame tensed in an instant, and his eyes assumed a certain gleam that all who knew him well recognized as a sign to proceed with extreme caution. "And why is that, cousin?"

"Your endless searching for Maglor," Fingon began carefully, "has grown to an obsession that can no longer be profitable to you. I worry that you are slowly driving yourself mad on a hopeless quest…"

The russet Elf turned away, aggravation exuding from his every movement, but his friend courageously pressed on.

"Perhaps your brother is content now to wander as he has already done for many centuries, and does not wish to be found by anyone? Not even by us. We have crossed so many miles without the slightest trace of him, Maitimo." Fingon tried to pretend he did not notice the shameless pleading that had assuredly crept into his arguments. Maedhros did not respond to him, would not even meet the other's entreating gaze.

"I know you do not want to hear this, but it must be asked. What are you going to do if we reach Lindon, and still you have not found him? I have never known you to abandon any task, cousin, especially not one so dear to you as this."

Maedhros still looked away, stubborn as any of his infamous household in his refusal to confront the possibility. Ironically, he seemed far more willing to give counsel than to receive it.

But at last he spoke, his muted words directed at the sand. "Do not try to deter me in this, Findekano – not now. At least you know that the reunion you always hoped for is imminent; a blind hope is all I have left to cling to."

Fingon's bright eyes fell to the ground as he replied softly, "I have always longed for this, ever since I sent him away…but I never expected it. I had thought surely that I would rejoin my father, which I did, before I ever saw my son again."

* * *

When one full week had passed since their incident with the spiders, the travelers came within sight of a massive river that rift the land in two. It was easily the largest any of them had ever seen, larger even than mighty Sirion of old, and they knew at once that it would be a hopeless task to attempt a fording unaided. So with Fingon and Maedhros securely cloaked, and with Odysseus doing most of the talking, they were able to charter passage across the great river from one of the locals, who kept stealing none-too-subtle glances at his two tall mysterious passengers. But he asked no questions, and that truly was for the best.

There were many more river crossings as they progressed northward, most of which could be accomplished on horseback at an opportune location. Civilization at length became a more common sight, but still there could be seen no sign of the Elves or their kingdom.

More than once did Achilles wonder with growing curiosity if Prince Hector and his people had settled along the coast in the years following Troy's downfall. Perhaps he and his companions had traversed right past the Trojans' new land without even realizing it? It would have been interesting, at the very least, to see what had become that once proud people, laid to so much ruin by his own two hands. But he would never know; they were much too far to the north now, and the lands as well as the people here were all strange to him. And still they had a long distance to go.

As for Maedhros, he evidently had not taken Fingon's precautions to heart, for his searches continued every night without fail or delay. Yet while outwardly he betrayed no sign of relenting, there could be no denying to himself that he was utterly exhausted; genuine rest remained elusive in the face of so many waking nights, and sleep fled before the onslaught of his recurring nightmares.

And so one cold, clear evening, not long before light would be rising in the East, Maedhros sat down on a boulder as his quest concluded for the night and sighed bitterly, having finally reached the end of his frustrations. He closed his eyes, proud head bowed low. Even now he would never voice his doubt aloud, but deep inside he had to wonder…what if Fingon was right? Maybe he had missed Maglor, or perhaps his brother had moved on to places farther away than he could even fathom. Was it really so hopeless?

But then again, perhaps all this time he had been seeking through his keen Elven sight that which could only be found through hearing? Or, more specifically, through singing? With hope at once renewed, the eldest son of Feanor raised his voice along with his head, and the choice of his ensuing song was no coincidence. For it was the very same melody of Valinor that Fingon had used to locate him amid his torment on that cursed mountainside – so long ago now it felt like another lifetime. It _had _been another lifetime.

At length, the song died on his lips, carried away by the chill wind. And then it might have been his imagination, or maybe it was a natural effect of the rolling rhythm of the waves; but it suddenly seemed to Maedhros that he could hear his own song floating back to him on the breeze, like the echo of a distant memory or the final fragment of some forgotten dream.

* * *

Dawn was breaking. Fingon had roused himself from a light slumber, but remained stretched out at his length upon the ground. His ear was pressed close to the earth, as though he were listening for something. When he at last sat up, his ageless face was drawn in thought; and it was with a distinct sense of urgency that he leapt to his feet and began gathering their supplies, summoning the others to do the same.

"What's wrong?" Eudorus demanded in alarm.

"I'm not sure," Fingon admitted, hurriedly tightening the girth on his saddle. "But I thought I heard…that is, I fear Maedhros might be in need of help."

That got their attention. If anyone of their party should have been assumed safe while traveling alone, it was Maedhros. And so in scant minutes the Greeks were ready to depart, trailing Fingon who urged his horse at a brisk canter northward along the coast. They followed the rugged shoreline, halting at varied intervals so that the Elf could lean forward and intently listen once again. The lingering perplexity scrawled in a frown across his face suggested that he never did hear the mysterious sound he sought.

They journeyed on, and what had begun as mild concern on Fingon's part was now grown into a fully-realized state of fear. The only reason the prince did not drive his steed to a clear gallop was an equally strong fear that he would miss some sign of Maedhros in his haste.

Yet at last, just as his fear was on the verge of becoming panic, Fingon's Elven eyesight spied the distant silhouette of two lean figures against the morning sky; and all fears left him. For as they finally drew near, the riders found Maedhros jubilantly embracing a dark-haired Elf that could only have been Maglor.

The second son of Feanor looked no different than when Patroclus had last seen him on the shores of Phthia two years prior. The same weather-worn raiment adorned his shoulders, and his countenance did not appear to have aged a day. The only thing that had changed – and what a difference it made! – was his smile.

Maedhros also wore a grin of heartfelt joy that had not been present even at his first reunion with Fingon; there had been too much guilt and sorrow to wrestle with then. But now, here again in the company of the two beings who knew him best and still passed no harsh judgments, Maedhros Feanorion could smile.

"I guess he really does have a heart after all," Eudorus said softly, almost more to himself than to his comrades. There truly wasn't much else to be said.

Even Fingon stood back at a respectful distance, waiting in silence while the two brothers held each other close. Yet his joy appeared no less than theirs when at last his elder cousin beckoned him forward, and he likewise embraced Maglor with all the strength and fervor befitting a son of Fingolfin.

They stood in a tight circle, with their arms wrapped around each others' shoulders, and their heads bent forward close to touching. They were most surely lost on a swelling sea of memories, together riding the waves of untold joy and sorrow. At that moment, they were the only three beings alive in Arda.

**Author's End Note: **Hooray! It's about time we finally caught up to Maglor, huh? He's been waiting in the wings for so long now, it warms my heart to see him finally make his long-awaited entrance. Merry Christmas, my friends!


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Ta-da, an update! Hugs and many thanks once again to **Trollmela **forhelping me brainstorm through some difficult sections here, and thank you also to **Crimson Cupcake **and **Angeline **for their thoughtful encouragement and reviews. All are much appreciated, my friends! And now I leave you to enjoy this most eventful new chapter, which I believe we shall also look back on as a type of turning point for the whole story when all is said and done.

**Chapter 12**

_"And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves. For Maglor was mighty among the singers of old…but he never came back among the people of the Elves."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

Several days passed as the party traveled with Maglor in their company, the new addition sharing a steed alternately with his brother and his cousin. Instead of Maedhros leaving every night to search, the new tradition became for Maglor to sing for them; and as had been hoped, his songs not only warmed the souls of everyone, but also aided in finally quieting the tempestuous dreams of Feanor's eldest child so that true rest was brought to him at last. The resulting changes in Maedhros' temper were both easily seen and gladly welcomed.

Furthermore, with the nights now growing bitterly cold, the four Greeks were constrained to sleep huddled close together for warmth; and Maglor's singing always seemed to take some chill out of the biting wintry air. Yet they all could not help but notice that even when Maglor sang a melody that should have reflected happier times in unstained Valinor, the tune was ever laced with sorrow that could not be ignored or forgotten by his audience. It was every bit as haunting as it was soothing.

"I wish I could sing as you do," Patroclus once commented wistfully when the Elven bard had finished his selection for the evening, and the two of them were alone, away from the others out under the open stars. The boy had impetuously followed, whether his company was desired or not; as it was, he felt infinitely more comfortable approaching this son of Feanor than the elder. "I would ask you to teach me, but I'm sure not even the most gifted mortal could ever be as good as you are."

Maglor nodded with sad understanding in his eyes. "That is true. But what is more, you would not want to endure the griefs and the trials that I have; for out of them comes the power of the music behind the words I sing."

"I can tell," the youth said, almost to himself, before beginning anew. "It's good to see you again, although I wish I had known who you really were back on that night."

"You were not meant to know then," the Elf stated, gently yet without apology.

Sensing a definite dead-end there, Patroclus attempted to redirect the conversation. "It must be a great surprise for you, seeing Fingon and Maedhros again."

"More of a shock, actually – but a pleasant one." A genuine smile graced Maglor's ageless face at the thought.

"And now I'm sure you're excited to be going back among your own people. From the way your brother and cousin were talking, it sounds like you really have been off wandering by yourself for centuries; and this place is so far from Greece where we first met. Won't it be good to finally have a home again?"

The Elf's haunted visage fell as he replied softly, "I can imagine no joy greater than when I first heard my brother's voice and saw his face again."

Patroclus took a step closer. "You were very close to him. Would you say that you know him better even than Fingon does?"

"I have spent more time with Russandol than Findekano has," answered Maglor slowly, carefully. "I grew up in the same house as him, of course, and then I spent the last century of the First Age with him after losing my own lands." His fair face darkened. "Those were turbulent times; yet my Maitimo was always there, no matter what else changed."

"Has he changed?" the boy questioned timidly.

Maglor's gaze grew distant. "He is much the same as I last remembered him – diminished from all that I had once seen him be, though the fire of his spirit still burns like a white hot flame that never cools. It is well that Findekano is here now, to revive in my brother those things – the hopes, joys, and affections – that perished with my cousin in the Fifth Battle."

The young Myrmidon frowned at that. "Shouldn't it be just as important to him that you are here? You're his own brother, after all."

The Elf's sad gaze came to rest once more on the face of his young companion. "I've no doubt that finding me must have meant a great deal to him, considering how tirelessly he searched. Nevertheless, Patroclus, it is Fingon whom he most needs right now, and has always needed. Even if Maitimo had not found me, Findekano's presence would still have been enough to see him through whatever fate may lie ahead." Maglor paused a moment, considering, then nodded. "Yes. I think it would be more than enough."

Grey eyes rose back up to embrace the starlight, and so the conversation ended.

* * *

That same night, after the mortals had each surrendered to the sleep that was so vital for the recovery of their strength, Maglor seized the opportunity to seek out a private encounter of his own. He had hardly been out of his brother's sight since they had first found each other, yet they'd had precious little time to themselves alone. Fingon currently stood on watch at the opposite side of their encampment, just far enough away that even he should not be able to overhear their conversation, provided voices were kept low.

Maedhros was seated on a boulder beside the fire, staring blankly into the flames that sent ghostly shadows flickering about his face. But Maglor knew his brother's keen mind was never idle. He settled down beside his elder, and for a time added no speech to the snapping, crackling chorus that played before them. The flames danced on, enthralling in their danger and their beauty.

"Fire is not how I ever expected you to perish," the bard commented quietly. "Even with all the enemies you boasted – in the end, your life could be taken only by your own hand."

With no invitation whatsoever, Maglor reached out and took hold of his brother's left hand, stoically turning it over to expose the palm. Like his own, the soft skin was scarred a raw and garish red – a permanent reminder of those treasures they had once held, but could not keep.

Maedhros did not withdraw his hand, yet he remarked with equal impassivity, "At least you had two hands to share the burden before casting it away."

Maglor looked up at him, inquisitive. "Does it still pain you, brother? Even after the time spent in Mandos?"

The elder nodded gravely. "Yes. But I have learned to live in spite of it."

"As have I."

His hand was released, and after another silent pause, Maedhros altered the topic of conversation with little ceremony. "We anticipate that we shall arrive in Lindon within the week. Once there, our first priority is to reunite Fingon with Ereinion, his son. I can scarce imagine what sort of reception will await us, the feared Kinslayers of an age many rejoiced to see concluded; yet no more can I deprive Findekano of such anticipated joy. After that, I can foresee no other course of action than a direct attempt to learn exactly what has brought us here, when by all accounts our very presence is inconceivable."

"Redemption, perhaps?"

"I had considered that. But in what form, Makalaure? What deed could we do, or what battle could we possibly win that would be the pardon of so many past wrongs? Even if this were so, and we were here to perform some heroic act that destiny yet keeps concealed – would it even matter in the end? You and I both know full well that there were admirable deeds performed by the sons of Feanor in their own true lifetimes, yet that is not what is remembered of us now. Today the memory of our bloodline is held either in the utmost contempt or in unwanted pity. I do not expect that to change, brother, no matter what new future is woven for me here."

And Maglor listened to his brother's words, but he said no more.

* * *

The waves were calm as the travelers readied themselves to depart the following dawn. It was a very grey morning, neglected by the sun and foreboding of a grim day to come. How painfully true that proved.

"I'm not coming with you into Lindon."

Lightning could not have struck six feet away and startled them more profoundly.

"You're not?" Fingon had found his voice first, although his words were few.

Maglor's countenance was sad, but not sorry, as he frankly explained his reasons before his kinsmen. "I know not for what purpose the Valar have seen fit to return the two of you, but it must be that from here on our fates lie estranged."

Maedhros' face was tense and pained, as though he were again reliving the bitter anguish of another brother lost. Fingon just looked sad, his customary smile having finally given way to the underlying currents of sorrow which were ever-present, yet valiantly suppressed.

Maglor continued, his gaze fixed mercilessly upon his sibling. "Whatever the two of you may hope to find or achieve in Lindon, I foresee that it cannot last. This is no longer our Middle Earth, Russandol, and never again shall things be as they once were."

The tears that now rolled openly down Fingon's cheeks were reflected in the eyes of the speaker, but still Maedhros did not move or speak. It was difficult to discern if the eldest son of Feanor necessarily looked betrayed, yet there was a new and unmistakable agony in those haunting silvery eyes as he listened to his brother.

"I wish you well, such as I may, but I can come with you no further. _Namarie,_ brother. Cousin. I pray these last farewells will atone for those that were never spoken in Beleriand of old. May the song of Ulmo within the waters grant you wisdom, and may the stars of Varda guide you always."

Thus Maglor the mighty singer of the Noldor departed from them, and never again did Maedhros or Fingon hear the sadly captivating beauty of his song.

* * *

A few days later, when they had halted to rest the horses, Patroclus decided to stretch his legs by walking on the outskirts of an extensive pine forest that lay just off the coast. He went alone, relishing the long-desired moment of solitude. Their traveling party was staggered now, split in two. The change had been initiated two days prior, when Fingon and Maedhros insisted that they travel approximately half a day behind the others to ensure that only the Greeks were first taken into Lindon when they at last arrived. And Zeus knew they could not be far now.

None of the Greeks had been brave enough, or foolish enough, to approach Maedhros directly since Maglor's stunning and sudden absence; for Maedhros, in particular, seemed to have felt the sting of that loss, as not even his cousin could. At least Fingon, despite his own sorrows, could still look to the future with hopeful eyes at the prospect of at last being reunited with his only child.

Patroclus himself had not yet wept since Maglor had left them; but now as he walked in lonely silence under a gloomy sky, the young Myrmidon could feel his eyes stinging with the threat of tears. It was only with a half-hearted effort that he blinked them away, all the while wondering at the delicate balance of it all. Maglor had been with them for so short a time, yet with his departure a despondent cloud had settled over every single one of them.

An inexplicable chill made Patroclus shudder with sudden cold, which could not be attributed solely to the changing weather. Why did the last words of the most beautiful voice he would ever hear in his mortal lifetime have to be spoken as little less than a foreboding prophecy of doom? It made no sense to him.

Now lost in his thoughts, the young Myrmidon did not notice that his errant feet were leading him far into the shadow of the lofty pines, well beyond the sight and sound of his companions. It was impossible to ignore that fact, however, when the sound of one stern word stopped the youth dead in his tracks.

_"Daro!"_

Patroclus froze in an instant, for the tone of authority in that foreign word clearly would suffer no argument. Shadows materialized behind the trees, disturbingly near, and very soon an entire company of Elven soldiers with drawn bows had the unwitting intruder surrounded.

While his heart raced, Patroclus' eyes scanned the mass of cold, distrustful faces about him, frantically searching for one they knew. And there he was: a golden-haired Elf whom the young Greek had met but briefly through Elrond during his first stay in Lindon; but he remembered the name.

"Glorfindel!"

The sunshine in Glorfindel's locks may have stood out in stark contrast against the raven night of his closest comrades, but his eyes possessed the same starlit brilliance of all his kin. The eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion, followed by a faint hope of recognition.

"Patroclus?"

The youth nodded, both relieved and pleasantly impressed by the Elf's flawless memory.

Glorfindel opened his mouth again to address their captive, but was interrupted when two other Elven sentries clad in armor and cloaks of dark forest green entered the ring of troops. There was no mistaking the air of urgency in their approach.

"My lord Glorfindel, we have apprehended three other mortals just beyond the woods not far from here." The guard faltered in his report, looking puzzled; or perhaps "skeptical" was a more accurate description. "They claim to be friends of the King."

"And they speak truly," Glorfindel assured him with a meaningful glance at Patroclus. "Bring them to us. I will escort them to Gil-galad myself, along with a small patrol."

**Author's End Note: **Now, I realize that some of my Maglor fans out there (meaning **CC & Trollmela**) are bound to be heartbroken over the fact that I've opted to remove him from the story so soon - but alas, this was his lot. Doomed to another cameo appearance, I'm afraid, but it just didn't work in the grand scheme of things for him to come back to Elven civilization. I do hope you all can forgive me? And if nothing else, perhaps the next happier chapter (whenever I finish it) will also help to make amends with my beloved readers. We're finally in Lindon, everyone!


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **I'm back, everyone! And after another dreadfully long absence, I know - and I do apologize. And the timing really was just terrible for the you all, wasn't it? It's like we've gone through so much trouble just to get these boys to Lindon, and now that we've finally arrived, I just leave you hanging. Not very nice, I understand, so hopefully this sweet little chapter will help atone for the delay. Better wish me luck on the next one too, as I'm sure that's another one you'd hate to wait for long. Thanks for your patience, and thank you **Crimson Cupcake, Trollmela, Angeline, **and **silmarlfan1 **for your encouraging reviews. Enjoy, my friends!

**Chapter 13**

_"Can't close my eyes; they're wide awake._

_Every hair on my body has got a thing for this place._

_Oh, empty my heart! I've got to make room for this feeling._

_It's so much bigger than me._

_It couldn't be any more beautiful – I can't take it in!"_

_~ Lyrics from "Can't Take it In" by Imogen Heap_

Patroclus took it all in, a beauty so great it was almost painful. Everything looked exactly the same – the land, the buildings, the people. It was as if they had not even felt the passage of four years. But the mood about the place was decidedly different now. Previously, there had been merely the tension and wariness of a potential, hidden threat; but now that the threat was known, the Elves of Lindon were clearly immersed in preparation for a coming war. Perhaps they did not know how much time they truly had before the first blow would be struck.

Glorfindel had led them since yesterday afternoon, and now – finally! – they were come to the heart of that beautiful realm which was Gil-galad's kingdom. After weeks of seeing little more than rocks, waves, and an occasional stunted tree, the stunning grandeur of Lindon was enough to rob them of breath and overwhelm their impoverished senses. Even in autumn, there remained that wondrously unique harmony of white stone and living color which three of the four Greeks remembered so very well.

Eudorus gazed up and around in total awe, as though he had been granted a glimpse of Olympus' dazzling summit.

"Makes us seem foolish for wanting to conquer Troy, of all places." Such were the only words he could summon, but when spoken in the towering shadow of the Elven royal palace, such words could not have been more fitting.

They passed a foursome of royal guards, which Patroclus was certain had not been there before, and soon followed Glorfindel into a spacious antechamber with high, vaulted ceilings.

"I'm afraid you must now wait a short while longer," the golden-haired Elf spoke softly. "Gil-galad and Elrond are in council with Cirdan, along with some of the other advisors. I will send the King to you here when they are finished."

And with one last smile – a promise that he understood exactly how much this reunion meant to his mortal guests – he withdrew silently and left them.

As he observed Glorfindel's retreat, Patroclus caught his cousin's eye from across the room and fully understood the meaning of his elder's weighty stare. Despite their own understandable excitement over the upcoming reunion with Gil-galad, the Greeks could not forget the true reason of what had brought them back to Lindon in the first place. And even though they had traveled far through many dangers simply to arrive, they must all realize that the real work had not yet even begun.

Seconds ticked on into minutes, and minutes dragged into over two hours before their presence was finally acknowledged. As the murmur of hushed, lyrical Elven voices became audible, Patroclus' breathing was suddenly a loud rush in his ears, and his heart pounded like a charging steed behind his ribs. This was it! At long last…

Ereinion Gil-galad strode through the same doors by which Glorfindel had exited, yet his entrance was decidedly less dramatic than might have been expected. Shoulders sagged, exponential cares furrowed a pale brow, and the hard lines of trouble framed his thin lips. Gone from his countenance was the old, familiar joy they'd come to know – until he saw exactly who awaited him.

"Patroclus…"

Grinning widely enough to tear his face apart, Patroclus bowed before the sovereign of the land, but already found himself stepping forward into the swift and sweet embrace of an Elven King. After the bliss of a long, quiet moment, Gil-galad gently kissed his forehead and stepped away, still cradling the boy's head in between his hands so that he might examine him more closely.

The deathless monarch sighed wistfully, the sound of it distinctly bittersweet.

"What changes the span of so short a time may work in the life of mortals. You are still very much yourself, child; but more full grown to a man now, I think, than the boy I spirited away from Troy four years ago." He smiled fondly, the expression warmer than any sunshine, while Patroclus was still too overwhelmed with the long-awaited comfort and familiarity of his presence to offer any further immediate thanks than a gracious bow of his head. In an instant, all the trials of their perilous journey were suddenly a fee scarcely high enough to have purchased just this one tender moment; for the youth knew he would have gladly suffered so much more, simply to be here now.

But Gil-galad had at last moved on to warmly welcome the other Greeks – even Eudorus, whose crystal blue eyes were wide with wonder as he bowed speechless before the High King of Lindon in all his splendor. They were presently ushered into more comfortable settings, and Gil-galad arranged for them to be given their own rooms in which to clean and rest themselves before he again joined them at a banquet that was to be held in honor of their return. The dust and grime of their adventures washed away as though the entire trip was now nothing more than a distant memory.

Still smiling contagiously, Patroclus pulled a fresh tunic over his head and suddenly remarked, "He hasn't even asked us why we're here yet."

"He will ask," Achilles assured his cousin sternly from where he stood waiting in the doorway. "But he is a gracious host to see to our immediate needs before pestering us with questions." The great warrior's eyes sparkled with hidden joy. "And he did seem truly happy to see us."

"Of course, he was happy to see us. Why wouldn't he be?"

"Because when you care for someone, you generally want to keep them as far away from danger as possible. Lindon is on the verge of war now, Patroclus, and I can't help but think that Gil-galad would have rather seen us safely home in Greece."

"Maybe," the younger Myrmidon admitted with grave reluctance. "But it's too late now – we're already here. And when he learns why, I think he'll be very glad that we came back."

* * *

The meal that evening was a luxury thoroughly enjoyed by the weary travelers, and sensing this, Gil-galad inquired after no more than the state of their health and the conditions of their arduous journey while the food was being consumed. Afterward, however, when he had brought Cirdan and all four of the Greeks into the privacy of his own study, the King deemed that it was at last time to talk of far more serious matters.

"Pray, my friends, I hope you will not misunderstand me," he began while meeting each of their eyes in turn. "For pleased though I am to see all of you again, I do not understand what could have possibly brought you back all this way to Lindon. Especially now, when the greatest war of the Age is knocking on our doorstep."

Odysseus could not restrain another smile. "What brought us here this time is quite a story indeed, my lord. But it is not one for us to tell."

"There is someone you must meet!" Patroclus eagerly supplied when Gil-galad appeared confused. "Someone who made the journey with us, but is not here now. He stayed farther behind so he wouldn't be apprehended by your scouts, as we were. Please, you must come with us and meet him."For _this_, after all,was the true reason for their return!

"I should like to know who this 'someone' is first, before allowing our King to walk blindly into a mysterious encounter." Cirdan's slow request was full of careful consideration, and Patroclus couldn't help smiling at how the venerable Shipwright would have to "allow" his former charge this outing. Some things just never changed, even – or was it "especially"? – for immortals.

"I can give you my word as King of Phthia that this stranger is a friend," Achilles promised the ancient Elf. "We met him by chance on the shores of my homeland. He is decidedly an Elf, and claims kinship with Gil-galad. When we learned who he was, there was simply no choice but to bring him here." The warlord turned his earnest gaze to their host. "I knew of the dangers in this land when we departed, my lord; you must believe nothing less than the most urgent need could have possibly persuaded me to lead these men – my friends and kinsman – out of Greece to return here."

"And where is this new friend of yours now?"

It may have just been his imagination, but Odysseus would have guessed that Gil-galad was really far more intrigued by their mysterious companion than he gave the impression of being.

And so the Ithacan answered, "We must go back down the coast to where your guards first found us. I cannot imagine he will have traveled any farther north than that."

The Elven monarch regarded his guests with a slow nod. "Very well, then. I will go with you tonight, just myself and the four of you. I am content to trust your judgment in the character of one with whom you have traveled for many weeks now. And even if he should prove unfriendly, what harm could any one foe do against the combined prowess of Gil-galad and Achilles?"

The son of Peleus felt his heart soar at the sudden lofty acknowledgment, though he realized the words had most probably been meant to assuage the worries of the King's old guardian. And even in spite of that, Cirdan quietly pulled Odysseus aside before they could depart, sharing things that were meant for their four ears alone. Only then, when their conversation was concluded, did the Shipwright finally appear at peace.

* * *

As their small company walked under the wide expanse of the night sky, what intrigued the High King most about the whole ambiguous affair were Achilles' words that this stranger he was about to meet was his own kinsman, for Manwe knew he had very few of those left on this side of the Sea. Ever so briefly his heart went out to Maglor, the lost Feanorion, whose death had never actually been confirmed. Could it be that he was still alive after all these years, and then, having been discovered by a handful of mortals, consented to being led back to the lands of his kindred?

It was a tantalizing fantasy, but one that Gil-galad dismissed almost immediately. For even if Maglor was still among the living, he had not yet seen fit to return to his people of his own accord; and surely not even the silver tongue of Odysseus could have persuaded him to come against his will – that infamous, immutable will which all of his household had inherited from their father.

Yet there could be no mistaking the well-nigh giddy excitement with which his Greek comrades escorted him to their hidden destination. Even as they passed beneath the shadow of trees in the waning moonlight, Patroclus' face in particular possessed the joyful glow of one who was about to finally unveil a hard-kept secret. Who could they possibly have found on the rugged coast of Phthia, so very far away from the Elven North?

The King stood alone in a clearing of pine trees now, waiting with all possible patience, while his guides supposedly fetched their anonymous companion. He hated waiting. In the growing cold, there was not even the hum of night insects to keep him company; only the distant host of silent stars that wheeled overhead. At last, the movement of a lone figure emerging from the shadows caught his attention, and all time suddenly stood still.

Gil-galad would never have thought it possible, had not Glorfindel already done so once before. It was a face he did not know nearly as well as he should have liked…but, dear Valar, how perfectly he remembered it! He had been young – far too young – when they'd last parted; but how could any child of the Firstborn ever forget the beloved face of his own father?

**Author's End Note: **See what I mean? Hardly a tense life-or-death situation, but still a heart-wrenching cliff hanger nonetheless. So wish me luck, and I'll see you next time!


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Can it be? A semi-timely update from Halo? It's a miracle! And trust me, I'm as amazed as you all are. It briefly occurred to me that this might be a fitting chapter to post closer to Father's Day, but I realized it would just be cruel to hold it back that long. Not to mention, I'm not sure I'd have the self-restraint to wait that long, myself! A thousand thank you's to my lovely reviewers on the last installment: **Nicky1992, Karategal, Crimson Cupcake, Trollmela, silmarlfan1, Angeline, **and **Brisingr Arget.** This must be the most reviews that a chapter of this story has ever received, and my heartfelt gratitude goes out to you all! Now it's my hope that you also enjoy the much-anticipated events of Chapter 14!

**Chapter 14**

_"Great was the lamentation in Hithlum when the fall of Fingolfin became known, and Fingon in sorrow took the lordship of the house of Fingolfin and the kingdom of the Noldor; but his young son Ereinion (who was after named Gil-galad) he sent to the Havens."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

The tears were there before Gil-galad was even cognizant of them, and across the space, he could see the droplets mirrored in his father's star-grey eyes.

"Ereinion?"

But he couldn't move. Despite the countless lonely nights he had spent dreaming in vain that such an encounter might someday occur…he found himself incapable of the slightest movement. And so his father came to him instead, the handful of steps between them a pitifully short distance to travel after the epically long journey from Phthia.

At first, Gil-galad hesitated to fully wrap his arms around his father, as he was suddenly unsure of what to expect. Would this be Fingon the Valiant as he remembered him, or just a frail phantom of his infantile memories? But the body was real, and the arms that held him with gentle fervor were as strong as he had ever recollected in his dreams. He let himself melt into that embrace, while the tears continued to flow silently. It had been so long! Too terribly long, for both of them.

The present King had not allowed himself to remember the pain of a childhood without parents in many, many years. Those sad memories were buried deep within the darkest crevices of his ageless mind, and were he to dwell on them, he would have thought himself ungrateful. He'd had Cirdan, after all! But only now, back in his father's arms, did he realize how deeply the wound of an orphan reached, and how desperately it ached.

The feel of his head resting on his son's shoulder was a strange sensation for Fingon. It was more reminiscent of hugging his own father, who, while much broader in the shoulders, had been about Ereinion's present height: considerably taller than Fingon himself, but never quite so tall as Maedhros. Why did everyone in his family have to be taller than him?

Fingon had lingered under the trees for a few moments, allowing himself to marvel from a distance at how very similar in stature Ereinion now was to his deceased grandfather. The overall build was predictably slimmer, but that tall and regal carriage could belong to none other than a member of Fingolfin's royal household. Incredible, how the tiny child he had once rocked to sleep on his lap – who at their last meeting had stood no higher than his hip – was now nearly a full head taller than him. How much he had missed…

There was no telling how long father and son stood there in that quiet glade, simply holding each other without speaking; for the dreamlike magic of the moment was sure to vanish along with the silence when either of them spoke. But at long last, Fingon pulled back just enough to send his searching gaze into the matching grey eyes of his son.

"You have grown so much, Ereinion." It was an exaggerated understatement, they both knew; yet every word was bolstered with the paternal pride that one Elf had always wished to voice, and the other had always wished to hear.

Fingon went on slowly, still blinking through the mist of his tears. "I know I should not be surprised, but…it is still so incredible to me." He reached up to tenderly stroke his son's damp cheek. "I do recognize you, my son, but mainly because I can see in every part of you the traces your forefathers. It grieves me terribly to realize how very little I know _you_."

"You shall know of me all that your heart desires, Ada, once you have come back with me. And Cirdan will be overjoyed to see you as well, even if he does not show it openly." The King was about to lead them out of the clearing, to find the Greeks and return to the city, when he was suddenly arrested by his father's voice.

"Wait, _ion-nin._ There is more."

"More?" Gil-galad turned and searched the older Elf's face, intent on finding some sort of clue there. For what "more" could possibly be added to this already blessed evening?

"Ereinion – I have not returned to you alone."

A couple of heartbeats passed before the weight of those words was fully realized, and Gil-galad physically took a step backward. He no longer knew if his eyes should be watching his father, or rather the trees that surrounded them on all sides, anticipating some new arrival.

"Grandfather?"

But Fingon shook his head with a sad smile, dispelling in an instant the sudden, wild hope that had nearly stolen the King's breath away. Certainly that would have been too marvelous to be true. And when his father still said nothing, Gil-galad felt his apprehensions rise. If not Fingolfin, then there was one other obvious choice of who might have been returned from Mandos' halls with Fingon the Valiant. But surely…

"That's not possible." The words barely escaped past his numb lips.

"My being here is equally impossible," Fingon reasoned gently, as though he truly were speaking to a small child. "Yet you do not deny my existence."

"How can I deny what stands before me, especially when my own two hands can confirm the reality of your presence here?"

"Then let us disprove another impossibility." The son of Fingolfin made a motion with his hand, and out of the towering pines there appeared another figure, this one by far taller than the first had been.

Gil-galad's chest tightened, and for one brief, painful moment, he was certain that his heart had ceased to function altogether. Another "impossibility" stood scant feet in front of him, and this one too had been a player in many of his dreams – visions of horror that always ended in naught save misery and bloodshed. The King had gone strictly rigid beside his father, and even while he consciously chastised himself for it, his fingers still twitched anxiously for the great spear that was not there. Not that having Aiglos in hand would have really helped the situation…

Fingon spoke calmly into the palpable tension. "Ereinion, I think it is high time that I introduced you to my dearest friend and cousin – your own kinsman – Maedhros Feanorion."

"I know him." The words were colder than the Helcar, though Ereinion himself could never know it. The fact that he had retained his composure even this well was little short of another miracle to mark the occasion. But the eyes of two proud princes met over the dark head of the one they both would claim to love above all others. Neither blinked, each of them too stubborn and too proud to allow even that small admission of defeat.

Gil-galad withdrew from the unspoken contest first, under the guise of addressing his father. "There will be much bitterness aroused in the hearts of my people when they see him; I'm sure our memories of the Feanorions are not so pleasant as your own, Ada."

But Fingon did not respond; he merely stood, smiling with imperturbable confidence, between his cousin and his child. And Ereinion's stomach twisted as he finally realized the path down which this bizarre encounter must inevitably travel.

The King spoke again, still to his father, as though it were difficult for him to even acknowledge Maedhros' looming and oppressive presence. Maedhros himself seemed content to say nothing. "I am loath to admit a son of Feanor into my realm. Many of the wounds they dealt have only just begun to heal, and I fear some others never will. But your fate has always been bound to his…and you won't come without him, will you?"

Fingon's smile never wavered, yet he shook his head to confirm his son's dilemma. And so Gil-galad nodded, albeit with the utmost reluctance.

"Then for your sake, Ada, I will permit it; for I would not turn away my own long-lost father on his account. Nevertheless, it is my wish that your entrance into Lindon be as discreet as possible. For the return of Fingon the Valiant, I should have proclaimed it to every household; but now instead only myself and my closest councilors shall be aware of your presence here, for as long as such knowledge may be kept amongst ourselves."

Fingon inclined his head graciously, if for no other reason than to mask his secret, knowing amusement at how his son had so effortlessly made the transition from a child to a king. "Of course, your desires will be respected, Ereinion. It will be for the best, after all, nor would we have wished it to be otherwise. Shall we be going, then?"

"Yes, I suppose we must. I will collect our friends from Greece, then return to lead us all back into the city."

"Thank you, _ion-nin_." The Noldorin prince watched his son's back vanish into the trees before turning his attention to Maedhros, hoping rather desperately that his cousin would not garnish the moment with a clever jest or two concerning height – or more specifically, about Fingon's comparative lack thereof.

* * *

Meanwhile, Gil-galad's steps were indeed leading him away from his kinsmen, but _not_ toward the Greeks who still waited a respectful distance away. The King's soul reeled like a ship caught at sea during a hurricane, and now he was left to painfully gather the windswept, tattered remnants of his composure. He needed this time alone, however brief – time to still his racing heart and calm his panicked mind.

Why _him_? The joy Ereinion had felt upon seeing his father again had been, and still was, boundless and unparalleled. So why, by all the Valar, did _he_ have to be there as well? Why could it not have been someone else? _Anyone _else?

This night should easily have been the happiest in his vast memory! Instead, the High King found himself facing a new internal challenge as daunting as any that opposed him from without. And it was amazing, really, how one's emotions could change so suddenly. The single most remarkable moment of his existence had been laid to utter ruin in an instant by the sight of another's face.

Even now, must the Sons of Feanor find a way to ruin everything? It certainly seemed so, for not even a miraculous reunion with his father could go unscathed. And how it sparked his royal anger to think that Maedhros had been watching them all along…

At this distance, even Gil-galad's keen hearing could not discern what words might have been passing between the two Elves he had just left. But when Maedhros suddenly laughed, it was as unmistakable as though a trumpet had been sounded on the field of battle. Quite involuntarily, Ereinion flinched. Why was that sound no more welcome to his ears than the screams of those in the agony of Death's cold clutches?

**Author's End Note: **Hooray for the long-awaited happiness! Yet, oh, the tension... And not even a Greek in sight for this chapter, but I do hope that's understandable. Ereinion and his daddy needed a chapter all to themselves. Or, at least, _mostly _to themselves. Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Hallelujah, the Muses are with me! At least for now. But either way, I am very pleased to present my beloved readers with another new chapter. This one's still heavily focused on the Elves, but I'm still happy with how it turned out. So don't worry, the Greeks haven't been forgotten - they're just overshadowed at the moment by an excess of Elvish goodness. Special thanks to **Nicky1992, Brisingr Arget, Trollmela, Crimson Cupcake, **and **silmarlfan1 **for their kind reviews. Enjoy the update, my friends!

**Chapter 15**

_"Many are the songs that have been sung of the duel of Glorfindel with the Balrog upon a pinnacle of rock in that high place; and both fell to ruin in the abyss…Then they buried him in a mound of stones beside the pass; and a green turf came there, and yellow flowers bloomed upon it amid the barrenness of stone, until the world was changed."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

Gil-galad graced his mortal friends with a heartfelt smile to convey his gratitude upon retrieving them, but there was still an undeniable tension that infiltrated his every movement. No doubt Maedhros was responsible for that. By no means did any of the Greeks, save perhaps Odysseus, pretend to fully understand the history between "the Sons of Feanor" and the rest of the Elves; but it was already becoming painfully clear that Maedhros' presence was going to complicate matters far more than they would ever have imagined. It would all be most interesting to observe, if nothing else.

They soon rejoined Fingon and Maedhros, who walked together at the rear of their small procession, and all followed the High King back to the heart of his kingdom, where the Lord of the Havens was already awaiting their arrival.

Cirdan dipped his head in greeting at their approach, but Fingon bowed full at the waist, as though making obeisance to his revered grandfather in ancient Tirion. The shipwright then extended his weathered hand in welcome, but his friend of long ago would settle for nothing less than the ardor of a full embrace.

"Thank you, Cirdan!" Fingon whispered earnestly into his ear. "Thank you for my son."

Cirdan drew back in wonder, marveling at the other's face in the new morning light, and replied, "Odysseus told me it was you, but I could scarce believe him. He said nothing of your companion, though."

"We agreed that I should be the one to reveal Maedhros' presence," Fingon explained succinctly. "It would not have been Odysseus' place to do so, though I cannot fault him for telling you of my own coming."

"I should not have allowed Ereinion to go so easily, had I not known it was you he went to meet."

The two old friends shared a knowing smile born out of mutual parental concern, and Cirdan then led their entire party indoors.

"Is Galadriel here as well?" Fingon inquired hopefully. Maedhros was not about to ask that question, for rather obvious reasons.

The Shipwright answered, "Your cousin and her husband no longer dwell in Lindon, having journeyed eastward with Thranduil some time ago. From the last reports, Celeborn was still in Eregion with Celebrimbor, but Galadriel and her daughter may have already departed through Moria to the eastern side of the mountains."

"That's strange." Fingon frowned, and not only because many of these names were new to him. "Why should their family have need to separate?"

"Did you wish to see them, Ada?" his son proposed, deliberately taking the conversation in a new direction.

But Maedhros spoke before his cousin could respond, unwittingly voicing the King's own doubts. "I do not imagine there will be time for that, Findekano; and the burden of danger lies heavily on my heart, even in this fair place. It would be best, I think, if we remained here at least for the time being."

"I agree." Gil-galad silently noted Maedhros' use of his father's Quenya name before coldly adding, "Besides, I'm not entirely sure your presence would be welcome there."

Maedhros met the piercing grey of those eyes, utterly unfazed. "Why not? Do the trees of Doriath still weep beneath the Sea?"

The High King bristled with a sudden surge of indignation. How could even a Son of Feanor be so insensitive and cruel? Surely it could not be attributed to ignorance, not for this Elf. He knew full well what he said, and every word was said intentionally.

Maedhros absorbed the smallest detail of the younger Elf's reaction to his verbal barb, then calmly spoke before the other could muster his ire for an appropriately scathing response. "You may have your father's face, young one, but your temperament is all your grandfather's. Of course, you have not known many who could have told you as much."

Beside him, Fingon closed his eyes and sighed bitterly as he listened to their exchange. He could fault neither Ereinion nor Maedhros for their respective feelings of resentment, yet he hated how their bickering left him caught between them. Though it could hardly be their intention, the Valiant prince still felt as though his heart was being rent asunder by warring loyalties; and he prayed dearly that the Valar had not brought him this far only to force him to choose between these two that he loved best.

* * *

It was the sound of tense, raised voices that first drew Elrond to the scene. His King's voice he recognized without question, but there was another speaking that tickled his oldest memories. Perhaps it was one of the Greeks, who were no doubt with Gil-galad at the present moment? But no – this voice had an unmistakable Elven quality about it. Where in Arda had he heard it before?

Just as his feet were about to cross the threshold into the council chamber, Elrond caught sight of a broad back draped with locks of fiery red hair, and he froze. It couldn't be! And yet, it could certainly be no other. Without another thought, the son of Earendil fled the room, hoping with all fervor that his brief presence and exit had not been noticed. They had. It was even Maedhros himself who marked the harried retreat and chose to follow.

From the concealing shadows of another corridor, Glorfindel's keen eyes narrowed as he watched the two old "acquaintances" depart, but he restrained his first impulses to pursue. He could observe them from afar for now. After all, he would speak with this Son of Feanor soon enough himself – and preferably in private.

Elrond's feet led him to a balcony at the far end of the hall, where the cool autumn air embraced him as he stepped out. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to clear his mind of images he had fought for centuries to erase: visions of two small boys – twins – huddled together in wide-eyed terror while their unhappy fate was decided by two brothers of an entirely different family. Revived anger, sorrow, and even greater fear all swirled like a crazed blizzard inside his chest, each emotion striving for expression on his face.

All at once, he was aware of the unmistakable weight of someone standing behind him; and memory left no doubt of who it must be. Almost involuntarily, his knees began to tremble beneath his weight, while his pale hands gripped the balcony railing with such force that his knuckles turned white.

After a painfully long moment, Elrond finally felt brave enough, and composed enough, to speak; however, he still stood so that his back was facing his unwanted visitor. "I had not expected to see your face again – not until the very end of days. And perhaps not even then."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you." But that familiar voice intoned no regret whatsoever. Maedhros strode casually up to join him, intentionally keeping more than a generous arm's length between them. For now.

"Does your brother also dwell here with Gil-galad?"

Elrond kept his gaze focused forward, staring determinedly past the branches of yellowing trees in the courtyard below.

"Elros is dead," he replied, putting as little emotion as possible into his response. This was not a subject he wished to broach now! Unfortunately, even if Maedhros was aware of that fact, it did nothing to deter him from continuing.

"How did it happen? I thought I taught him better than that."

"He did not fall in battle," the Half-Elven quickly clarified, then hesitated as he searched for the proper words. "My brother died of…natural causes. Old age."

"You mean like a Man?"

"Yes. His Choice was different from my own." Elrond did not offer much detail about the inherent birthright of the Peredhil, but Maedhros did not push the matter. He must have surmised enough on his own.

"I can only hope he was a credit to that sad race." An amused smile played across his lips then, and the Son of Feanor suddenly grew reflective. "I taught your brother how to fight; my brother taught you how to sing. Apparently music was the more enduring talent."

At those words, Elrond finally glanced over and met his companion's fearsome eyes. "Do you know what ever became of Maglor? Have you seen him since your return?"

Maedhros heard genuine hope and concern in the question, a strangely touching realization in and of itself. But discretion bound his tongue, even as he opened his mouth to reply. For as painful as their separation had been the second time, there could be no doubt that Maglor had left them for a reason – even if it was known only to himself.

"I am afraid not, child," he found himself lying smoothly. "Although Makalaure's spirit was never my companion in the Halls of Mandos, I know nothing of him in these dark lands."

Elrond's gaze fell once more at that, his shoulders drooping in obvious disappointment; and across the space between them, Maedhros felt his own eyes narrow as he observed the Elf who had once been his captive. Would Elrond be so unguarded about his feelings for Maglor if he were speaking to anyone save Maedhros?

Meanwhile, the Peredhel shifted uneasily on his feet. For Maedhros was watching him relentlessly, even as Elrond himself struggled to look into the other's face for just a moment. He had no desire to meet those eyes again, nor was there anything left for him to say. The overall impact left him feeling decidedly young and childish again – him, one of Lindon's most praised orators and trusted councilors!

Eventually, the unbearable silence stretched too long, and Elrond simply retreated without another word. Yet Maedhros remained where he stood, for he could sense that his company had very quickly been replaced. He now steeled his will for a very different sort of confrontation.

"Have you come to Lindon as a penitent?" Glorfindel's stern voice demanded with little ceremony.

Maedhros regarded the other Elf coolly. "I heard you were slain in the sack of Gondolin," he remarked, blatantly disregarding the question that had been asked of him. It was Glorfindel who answered instead.

"So I was. Had I survived, your visit to the Havens of Sirion might have ended…quite differently."

Maedhros smiled thinly at him, but his eyes were void of light in the expression. "Nay. I think you should have only died a little later."

Glorfindel's blue eyes finally flashed in unrestrained anger. "Have sixteen centuries in Mandos done nothing to humble the pride of the Feanorions? I was acquitted after the price of my life's transgressions, such as they were, was paid in full. It is not possible that you, or even your cousin, should be here now!"

Remarkably, Maedhros maintained his outward semblance of composure. "I agree. But Fingon and I neither asked nor wished for our spirits to be re-housed; in my case, why would anyone who ended his own life wish to have it back again? We certainly would not have chosen to return to these hither lands. I can only presume you did?"

"Yes. After my quick release, I was granted permission to return here, that I might look after the last remnant of my lord's house." He was referring, of course, to Elrond – the great grandson of Fingon's younger brother, Turgon. "But I take it you were not returned in such a manner."

Maedhros snorted softly. "Hardly. My cousin and I were both vomited up onto southern shores like the very bile of the Sea. As though even it could not long stomach our presence."

"Nor can I – at least in your case."

"Then why are you here?"

Glorfindel straightened, the defiant posture a reflection of his unwavering intent. "Because I want you to know full well, Son of Feanor, that the consequences will be dire if you again harm Elrond in any way."

The taller Elf merely shrugged, appearing almost bored. "Why would I? Have I not brought enough grief to that one's life already?"

"I should say you have."

Maedhros stepped closer then, lowering his voice so that his tone finally assumed a more menacing edge. "Then allow me to make one thing very clear to you, Glorfindel of Gondolin: I am here for my cousin, and for him only. Not for you, not for Elrond, and not even for Ereinion. Just for Fingon."

Glorfindel allowed himself a rather smug smile, though his spine stiffened to have this notorious Kinslayer so very near. "I am glad to hear it. Perhaps you will have better fortune following him, than he did when he followed you."

The very fires of the earth held their breath as they waited for a reaction, remembering as they did the awesome fury of him who had once given them his greatest treasure. But loyalty to Fingon must have conquered even that great obstacle, for Maedhros' hand did not so much as hover over the hilt of his sword; and it was grim sorrow, rather than anger, that dominated his subdued response.

"I can only hope you're right – for his sake."

**Author's End Note: **Wow, that was fun! This chapter has some of my favorite lines for Maedhros, so I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Thanks, as always!


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, this story is not dead! This particular chapter is posted in dedication of my good friend **Trollmela's **birthday, which is this coming Monday. I hope she finds this small token a pleasant, albeit early, birthday gift. Love you, girl! Deepest thanks to any and all of my steadfast readers who have stuck around long enough to witness the realization of this update, and special appreciation for all of you who reviewed the last chapter, posted in a previous age: **Beloved Daughter, Tori of Lorien **(who is now happily all caught up)**, Crimson Cupcake, silmarlfan1, Trollmela, Darth Feanor, & GoldenHorde.** You all are amazing, and for that reason alone, I hope you thoroughly enjoy this long-awaited chapter, in which critical plot developments are at last revealed. Thanks for your patience!

**Chapter 16**

_"In all the deeds of Melkor the Morgoth upon Arda…Sauron had a part, and was only less evil than his master in that for long he served another and not himself. But in after years he rose like a shadow of Morgoth and a ghost of his malice, and walked behind him on the same ruinous path down into the Void."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

"So, has our welcome been all that you thought it might be?"

Fingon was whispering to his kinsman in Quenya as they followed Ereinion, Cirdan, and the mortals down one of the palace's many hallways. Candles would need to be lit here soon, as the golden sun was already sinking beyond the Sea.

"My expectations have not been disappointed, if that's what you mean," Maedhros replied in similar fashion. "Those we have met smile unreservedly when they see you; and then as soon as they see me, that smile fades. Apart from that, your son's kingdom is in every way a fair and pleasant realm."

"That it is, to be sure, and he has every right to take pride in it. But it is certainly a far cry from our own lands as I remember them."

The conversation ended abruptly with that remark, for Gil-galad had led them into a comfortable, private room which must have been his own personal study. At long last, it was time for all of them to sit down and seriously discuss what present circumstances might have warranted the return of two Noldorin princes long departed to the Halls of Mandos.

"I thank the Valar that you were found at once by friends of our people," the High King commented, primarily to his father. "Though I do wonder why you were returned to Greece of all places, and not here in Lindon?"

Fingon merely offered a shrug. "We may never know for certain, _ion-nin, _though I daresay it might have worked out for best in the end. After all, we were able to acquaint ourselves with these new lands and learn something of your situation from our Greek friends, all without the necessity of causing a great disturbance in your country."

"Yet the journey itself must have been terribly long by land. Did you encounter many enemies along the way?"

"Only a few," Maedhros supplied. "Our greatest trial consisted of a few members of Ungoliant's unhappy descent, but they were driven back. I was surprised, though, that we never saw any sign of even a simple Orc company."

"That can be explained easily enough," Gil-galad informed him grimly. "You saw no Orcs because they are all being mustered for a forthcoming assault against us."

"Being mustered?" his father echoed in alarm. "By whom?"

The raven-haired monarch sought a brief, confirming glance from his mentor before finally revealing in one simple word the announcement that they both knew was long overdue: "Sauron."

"I remember Sauron." Maedhros' voice suddenly resonated with a deep hostility not yet heard by his newest acquaintances. He did indeed remember Sauron – far better than any of them could comprehend. "How did he make his unfortunate return to power?"

"With fair guise he deceived the Mirdain smiths of Eregion in the East. They learned much from him, and he from them; but now he has betrayed them. I never allowed him entrance into Lindon, hence our wariness about any strange visitors. Even those coming in the company of friends."

But the son of Feanor ruefully shook his head, leaning forward where he sat. "Fools. Have the Noldor learned nothing of their forefathers' sorry fate? My nephew, in particular, should have known better."

"Sometimes a lust for greater knowledge and achievement is just as dangerous as lust for riches and power unending," Cirdan answered wisely before his younger sovereign spoke again.

"That's why Celeborn is still in Eregion, though Galadriel has likely left; he's helping Celebrimbor prepare for Sauron's impending attack, as Eregion is sure to be struck first." Gil-galad's countenance grew even more grave. "But that's not all. I'm afraid there is more to tell, even since you were last here." He nodded to indicate the Greeks.

"In recent months, we have also been plagued by such terrors of my youth as I had hoped never to see again: a dragon and a Balrog. The two always appear together, with the Balrog battling on the ground, and the worm attacking from the air." He sighed, suddenly sounding very weary indeed. "Sauron's emergence is troubling enough, as you can well imagine; the last thing my people need is fear of yet another ancient evil."

Fingon exchanged glances of obvious concern with his cousin. "Where did they come from?"

"They both must have survived the War of Wrath and later found each other in vaults carved out long ago beneath the mountains." Gil-galad pointed to the map spread out on the desk before him. "There is a gap here in the Hithaeglir to the north. We believe that to be the origin of the attacks, but their desolation is steadily reaching southwest – toward Lindon."

The presence of the four Greeks in this council had almost been forgotten, but it was in fact Odysseus who now posed a question to their host. "Do you think they have come at the bidding of Sauron?"

Gil-galad weakly shook his dark head, though he did appreciate the Ithacan's thoughtful input. "It is difficult to say, my friend. But if they were all united in one common purpose, I should think their course would take them directly south, to crush Eregion between themselves and Sauron's forces, when at last he comes. He may actually have no control over them whatsoever, since both such demons were only ever loyal to the great Enemy himself."

Then, quite abruptly, Maedhros rose and turned to address the High King. "I am glad you told us of all this, Ereinion; it certainly does serve to shed some light on the reason for our presence here. But I believe we have heard enough for one night. Come, cousin, let us retire. I'm sure talk of these things will continue in the light of tomorrow's sun."

He gestured to his younger kinsman, and Fingon obeyed the summons to follow without hesitation, though he did at least take the time to bid their companions good-night. The Valiant prince had initially hoped to spend more time alone with his son this evening, but it was clear to him now that Maedhros had the greater need of his attentions. And so they left.

Once the two Elves had essentially taken their own leave, the Greeks waited instead for Gil-galad to officially dismiss them before following suit, signifying a sure conclusion to the night's gathering.

Gil-galad remained seated behind his desk, closing his tired eyes in a rare moment of blessed silence; he truly did feel the need for rest himself now. It had been a very, very long day. But his thoughts of sleep were proven premature, for Cirdan was not yet content to let him leave. Now that the two old friends were alone, there were other matters at hand which warranted immediate discussion. And the Shipwright's sharp eyes were not about to miss the new lines of care that had scrawled themselves painfully across the face of his former ward.

"The joy of reuniting with your father is not all that it should be, Ereinion. Are you so very upset to have Maedhros in your home?"

The Noldorin King wrestled briefly with how much of his heart to reveal, but at length, he decided to speak frankly. For surely Cirdan, of all people, would not be a harsh judge of his innermost thoughts.

"I always knew that Maedhros was my father's closest friend," he confessed, "but I also know how much death and devastation he and his brothers wrought at the end of the Elder Days. I _saw_ it, Cirdan, even as you did; and I wondered how his one hand could possibly shed so much blood. Since then, I have never thought too kindly of Maedhros Feanorion, in any context. But now here I see my own father look upon the features of this same Elf who once terrorized my people…and smile."

"Does this surprise you?"

"No. But it does upset me a good deal more than I should care to admit."

The ancient Elf slowly nodded in understanding before broaching the next topic. "You did not tell them about the Rings."

With another heavy sigh, Gil-galad reached into the deepest pocket of his robes and brought forth the priceless treasure that had been entrusted to him four years prior: a perfect sapphire set in a band of purest gold. Mesmerizing candlelight danced on a field of midnight blue, delaying the King's response; even his own reflection could be seen in that smooth and flawless sphere.

He knew the Red Ring was merely an arm's length away from him, kept on Cirdan's person at Ereinion's own request; and the third Ring, they hoped, was by now safely concealed with its bearer on the far side of the Hithaeglir.

"It is not something they need to know right now," he said at last.

Cirdan's approval found its expression in the barest of smiles beneath his beard. "Then I commend your discretion, child. You did as I would have done."

Gil-galad looked up at his mentor then, suddenly seeking reassurance. "So you don't feel that I am being unjust to treat my own father as a stranger in my kingdom?"

"By no means. After all, the purpose of their time with us is not yet fully known, and due caution is not only wise, but necessary."

The young King nodded, absorbing those words before articulating more of his own. "But regardless of anything else, surely their presence will be of immeasurable value to us in the battles ahead. Is this alone not reason enough for all of us to be glad of their coming?"

Cirdan's reply came only after a long, reticent pause. "Perhaps. But remember, Ereinion, that these recent events are beyond anything even I have foreseen. We have yet to see what end shall come of it all."

* * *

Maedhros and Fingon were lodged together only a short distance from the Greeks, and for that, Patroclus was grateful. He had been worried, perhaps selfishly so, that upon their arrival in Lindon he would see little more of the two historic figures that had brought them there.

And the newest Myrmidon found it strangely curious to note how the passage of so many years must inevitably leave its mark even on an ageless race. For Cirdan was obviously far older than all of his present companions, yet Fingon looked to be almost the same age as Gil-galad his son; the only true difference to be seen was in their eyes. And it was also assuredly by his eyes that Maedhros segregated himself from his peers; not even Cirdan's ancient gaze could match the bright intensity and the fire that dwelt within the orbs of an Elf who had been born in Valinor and tortured in Angband.

Patroclus was with his fellow Greeks now, all of them gathered together in one room to talk before taking some rest themselves. It came as a surprise to all of them, however, when Fingon himself appeared in their doorway without warning.

But the Elf's broad smile was entirely genuine as he said, "My friends, everything has happened so quickly these past two days that I have not yet had a chance to properly thank you – for all of this."

"Believe me, my lord, it was our pleasure," Odysseus answered with a smile of his own. "We are blessed to call your son our friend, and it is an incredible honor for us to have played a part in bringing him such happiness at your return."

Fingon bowed his head to them, a further indication of his gratitude, only to leave them again without another word. Whatever Maedhros desired to discuss with his cousin that evening, it must have been an urgent matter indeed.

His face somber and thoughtful, Achilles deliberately turned his gaze back to his comrades after the Elven prince's withdrawal, stating, "We were fortunate that Gil-galad allowed us to be included in their council tonight. Zeus knows he didn't have to, considering how private most of their conversation was. Not even Elrond was there."

"Perhaps he tolerated our presence because we already know about Fingon's and Maedhros' return," Eudorus suggested helpfully. "We've been their companions since the beginning, after all, so there's no need for him to hide them from us."

"Or maybe he's just being thoughtful enough to keep us informed, since we _have_ been with them all this time." Patroclus attempted to change the subject. "I think we are all familiar with dragons, but what exactly are these Balrogs that Gil-galad mentioned?"

All eyes turned then to Odysseus, who leaned forward with a low sigh.

"Of all Elf banes, they are the worst," the Ithacan royal explained quietly, "ancient demons of fire and shadow. Kings and countless other brave warriors have fallen to them, primarily in the First Age. Balrogs have been slain by those who are truly mighty, but I do not know of any Elf that has yet defeated one and lived to tell of the battle. It is always others who must sing their praises. And if one of those creatures is here now, along with a dragon…then Gil-galad should be grateful indeed that his kinsmen arrived when they did. Their being here can only help him in this situation."

But Patroclus still frowned, confused. "Then why didn't Gil-galad speak of it, if you think that's really the reason why Fingon and Maedhros are here?"

Eudorus' crystal blue eyes were softened by sadness as he gazed at his young friend. "Child, Gil-galad is seeing his father now for the first time in many hundreds of years. If you were in his position, would you truly be asking Menoetius to fight a dragon for you, and quite possibly perish in the attempt?"

All color drained from the youth's face at that question, and he swallowed visibly before whispering a subdued reply. "No. I would be praying no one even mentioned it."


	18. Chapter 17

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **See, I told you I would do better next time! Not that I would blame anyone for doubting, of course. Consider this a tremendous "thank you" to those faithful readers who didn't miss a beat in reviewing the last chapter, even after such a long draught: **Beloved Daughter****, Crimson Cupcake, silmarlfan1, Trollmela, Darth Feanor, GoldenHorde, & Blackeri.** And with that, I don't believe I have much else to say right now, except that I hope all of you enjoy this efficiently posted chapter!

**Chapter 17**

_"Again after a hundred years Glaurung, the first of the Uruloki, the fire-drakes of the North, issued from Angband's gates by night. Then Fingon prince of Hithlum rode against him with archers on horseback, and hemmed him round with a ring of swift riders; and Glaurung could not endure their darts…and he fled back to Angband, and came not forth again for many years."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

Following his brief interaction with the Greeks, Fingon immediately returned to the rooms that he and Maedhros shared and swung the door shut behind him. He truly was indebted to those mortals; for without their generous aid, there was no telling how long it might have taken him and Maedhros to gather their bearings and at last arrive in Lindon on their own. But all of the pleasant thoughts born in recent hours receded from his mind like an ebbing tide when he beheld the visage of his lifelong friend, who stood awaiting him beside an open window.

"Now we know, then."

Maedhros' words were heavy with foreboding, and at their utterance, Fingon found his feet could carry him no further.

"What do you mean, Russandol?" Perhaps if he feigned ignorance, it would postpone this inescapable conversation for just a few moments longer. It was all happening too quickly – and they had only just arrived!

But Maedhros would not humor him. "You already know, Findekano: the dragon and the Balrog. As soon as Ereinion made mention of them, everyone in the room must have realized that they are the reason for our return to the living. Now there is no avoiding what must be done, and for my part, I would see it done sooner rather than later."

He closed the window then, denying entrance to the night air that stung his skin with cold. The eldest son of Feanor had long since discovered that it was difficult to remain comfortable when both fire and ice possessed the power to awaken memories that would rather be forgotten.

His kinsman sighed wearily. "Please, Maitimo, can't this at least wait until morning?"

"Why wait? You will find no more rest tonight than I will; we might as well speak of it now."

"Speak of what?" Fingon's own bitterness finally made its distressing presence known. "Of how we have been returned and reunited with loved ones only to die again so soon?"

Maedhros let the outburst wash over him without complaint, though he did regard his kinsman with some surprise. "I expected you to be more optimistic, cousin. Do you not believe that we may achieve victory against these foes?"

Fingon was forced to close his eyes for a moment, as bleak visions of own demise were now stirring deep within his mind. Who would know better than he the dangers of both the Uruloki and the Valaraukar?

"Do _you _believe it?" he demanded in turn.

"I only know that such evil is of the First Age," his elder answered stoically. "As are we."

"But we've been here for so short a time…"

Maedhros sensed the depth of his friend's concern, though it did little to alter his own resolutions. "If we can fulfill our ordained purpose, then the spent time here will have been long enough. Fingon, if we can defeat these demons, it may not radically alter the course of history; but at least it will free Ereinion and his followers to confront the true challenge that lies before them without additional hindrance. As your son said, Sauron's return is trouble enough for this Age, and the longer you and I delay will only result in further devastation for his people."

_His _people – not _our _people. Yet Fingon currently lacked the strength to debate his cousin's choice of words. Instead his simply sat down in the nearest available chair, with his head hung low. Midnight locks of hair hung down to hide his face from view like a curtain; but when he looked up again, his expression was one of grim determination. Once before he had separated his obligations to his people from his obligations to his own family, and he could do so again, if indeed the Valar required it of him.

"Very well, then. I want the Balrog."

"No!" Maedhros' eyes flashed with silver fire as he suddenly stepped nearer. "The Balrog must be left to me."

But his friend showed no sign of relenting either, growling, "I have unfinished business with their kind."

"As do I – as do we all." Maedhros' voice was grave as he actually knelt down on the floor to lock his kinsman in a weighty stare. "Cousin, you know as well as I that archery will do you little good against a Balrog, but it will be necessary to fight a dragon. And _you _are the archer between us now. Besides, we already know you can defeat such a beast."

At that, Fingon sat back in his chair and laughed suddenly. "I had help then, Russandol."

"Perhaps," his companion shrugged. "But I heard that even those who rode with you were happy to credit you with the victory; and this worm, I am certain, will be no Glaurung."

"Yes, but Glaurung couldn't fly, as you may recall. That will make a great difference this time, though I will still do all that I can."

"Of course, you will! Not without good reason have you ever been hailed as the most valiant of all our princes." Here Maedhros steadily reached out and laid his remaining hand on Fingon's forearm. "Yet I would beg you to consider this: even if death is fated for us a second time, at least we may now embrace it as the result of a good and honorable deed. I am not afraid to die again, my friend, and in my case, perhaps it would even be for the best. My only regret would be in knowing what anguish my death would cause you. I have already suffered through that pain once, Findekano, but you have never known it. And I certainly would not wish it upon you."

"Then let us both fight in such a way that it need not happen."

Those final words had been spoken with familiar resolve, and the copper-haired Elf smiled, genuinely pleased to see a return of his kinsman's resilient, tenacious spirit. But only in the secrecy of his heart would Maedhros confess that his own personal safety was insignificant now in comparison to Fingon's survival. For by all the Powers of the earth and sea, he would not see it happen again that he should live while his beloved friend and cousin perished.

* * *

Fingon announced their decision the following dawn. He was back in his son's study, and this time they were alone. Surely the privacy was agreeable to both of them, for even all of Ereinion's royal bearing could not mask the vulnerability and fear that rose up in his star-bright eyes as he listened to his father pronounce his own fate.

For a long moment, silence hung heavy in the air like a dense fog before the High King could steady his voice enough to speak. "I do not ask you to do this, Ada. Even for you and Maedhros, the dangers of fighting these creatures alone will be – "

"We understand the dangers, _ion-nin _– probably better even than you do. And it would seem that Powers greater than any of us here have commanded the confrontation, whether you would request it or not." Fingon sought his son's worried gaze before continuing. "Ereinion, even you must acknowledge the extreme coincidence of Maedhros and myself arriving at the same time that these two ancient devils arise to assail your kingdom. We will not resist the inevitable call of destiny, and you would be wise not to interfere with it."

The two royal Elves were standing on opposite sides of the King's desk, so that their contrasting wills clashed in midair above the maps, letters, and inkwells which bore witness to the familial struggle. Gil-galad ground his teeth; a heated, personal debate of this nature had certainly not been on his agenda for the day when he'd awoken that morning.

"It is hardly a matter of 'destiny', as you call it, but of doom."

"Then let it be our doom!" his predecessor countered with equal vehemence. "But bear in mind, young one, that Maedhros and I have not forgotten the power of the Light under which we were born and nurtured, ere the Darkness came. We remember the glory of our early days, and I promise you: if we are fated to die here, this time it will not be in vain."

Only distantly was Fingon aware of what drastic transformations could be enacted in just a few short hours! For here he had now assumed his cousin's persuasive role of the previous night, while Ereinion was forced into his own former, recalcitrant position.

Gil-galad's eyes flickered to and fro about the room, as though hoping they might espy something to kindle fresh inspiration for his next words. "Will you allow me to send an elite troop of archers into battle with you against the dragon?"

If Fingon noticed that the King had neglected to make such an offer in regard to Maedhros, he did not mention it. However, Fingolfin's firstborn shook his head in refusal.

"Do not endanger your soldiers in this, Ereinion. I am convinced now that this is the very reason we were sent here to your aid – to battle the evils of our own time on your behalf. And if we cannot be victorious on our own, then I am not certain that there will be any victory at all."

Gil-galad let out a sigh of deep frustration, still loath to concede his defeat in the argument. "Then at least let me go with you."

"No." Fingon would not even entertain the notion. "I have not come here to watch you imperil your own life without need. This is our task to perform, our risk to take – not yours. You will stay with Cirdan and the others."

Gil-galad bristled, incredulous that his offer was being so unilaterally discarded. "I am not a child anymore."

"But you will always be _my_ child," his father interrupted sternly. "And you will remain here."

Suddenly speechless with indignation, the immortal monarch could only whirl away with a swish of his royal robes and storm out of the room.

But unbeknownst to the Elf, his retreat was observed by eyes the color of a stormy sea. Patroclus watched him go, totally unnoticed where he stood across the hallway from Gil-galad's study. He had hoped to perhaps speak with the King a bit himself this morning, but instead he had happened upon a conversation that was clearly never intended for his hearing. He had not understood the words, of course, for they had all been spoken in the Elven tongue; doubtless any details which concerned himself and his mortal comrades would be made known soon enough.

But merely the tense, raised intonation of the voices was enough for him to understand the spirit of all that had been said. For how well did he recognize the calm, unshakeable purpose in Fingon's words! He had heard it so often himself in the past, every time he had unsuccessfully begged Achilles to let him fight; and how well did he relate to the flustered entreating of Gil-galad's voice, followed by an equally familiar bitterness and disappointment. Fingon had just denied an impassioned request from his son, and with a battle inevitably looming in the near future, that request was easy enough to surmise.

Patroclus' heart suddenly went out to the Elven King in empathy. As heartbreaking as it had seemed all those times when Achilles had left him behind, it had never been quite so devastating as this – as a father deliberately refusing aid from his son. Truly, there could be no comparison.

* * *

The confrontation between Fingon and Gil-galad was still fresh in Patroclus' mind four days later, when he and his Greek companions set aside an afternoon to roam about the city and explore the life of a more common Elf. The salty sea air was refreshing for all of them, and a welcome change after spending nearly a week in the tense cloisters of the palace. It was a palpable thing to all of them now, the tension. Ever since Fingon and Maedhros had declared their intentions of fighting the dragon and the Balrog, life in Gil-galad's home had been relatively quiet…although far from peaceful.

Quiet until yesterday, of course, when messengers had ridden out of the East with news that the two fiery terrors had been sighted once again, this time even closer to Lindon. Then today the battle preparations had begun in earnest, for Fingon and his cousin were determined to seek their foes with the ensuing sunrise. And it was that knowledge which weighed down the faces of all four Greeks, making it difficult for them to smile even amidst the bustle and livelihood of the markets where they now found themselves.

Patroclus was especially downcast. "I can't believe this is happening so quickly."

"Gil-galad's kinsmen are the finest warriors I've ever seen. I would rather have them at my side in a battle than Ares himself, and if there was ever anyone who stood a chance of winning in this fight tomorrow, I'm sure it's them!" Achilles was attempting to lift his cousin's spirits, not to mention his own; nevertheless, he still kept his voice low and did not mention Fingon or Maedhros by name. For as far as they were aware, knowledge of the new arrivals was still strictly confidential.

As they walked, none of the Greeks noticed that they were being followed through the marketplace, until a verbal hail from their pursuer finally caused them to halt and turn. The tall figure waving at them was unfamiliar, yet decidedly friendly; and, much to their surprise, he was a Man like themselves. His bearing was noble and lordly, almost Elf-like in a way; but his heavy step and the hair on his face at once betrayed his mortal heritage. He looked a bit young at first glance as he approached them, although still certainly a man grown to his full maturity.

The stranger smiled broadly, addressing them in the Common Tongue. "Well met, friends! I'd not expected to meet many of my own kind here."

The Greeks returned his greeting, and the newcomer wasted no time in introducing himself further. "My name is Melendil. My father is a trader here from Numenor, and I have come with him on this visit to learn the ways of the Sea and become more familiar with the Elven culture in Lindon. I was just on my way to the shipyards now."

Achilles frowned at the location mentioned. "Numenor?"

"A large island south and west of here," their new acquaintance explained. "Since its settlement at the beginning of the Age, my people have been friends with the Eldar of Lindon; and I was not aware that Gil-galad had befriended Men of any descent other than my own. From whence do you hail, then, that you are so freely welcomed in these lands?"

"We are from Greece," the lord of Phthia informed him, "a land along the coast very far south of here. There was a war in those parts four years ago, which is when we met Gil-galad."

"You were allies of his, then?"

Achilles exchanged glances with Patroclus before continuing. "Truthfully, we were his enemies – or rather, enemies of his mortal allies. We never had to fight against any of the Elves, thankfully; but my cousin here was actually captured by Gil-galad and became his prisoner of war. Odysseus and I followed them here to Lindon, and I'm happy to say we all parted as friends."

"But you have all returned, obviously."

It wasn't a direct question, yet the statement still begged to know exactly what had summoned them back to the land of Elves.

Odysseus, tactful as always, supplied an appropriate answer. "We came across information in our lands concerning King Gil-galad that merited the return journey."

The Ithacan's words had been purposefully pleasant, yet Melendil must have understood that he would be hearing nothing further on this matter; quite wisely, he did not object to the evasion. Yet the more they went on to speak of their respective homelands and occupations, the more Achilles was impressed by this Numenorean; for while the man was hardly as impressive as the Elves who surrounded them, he still struck the Greek champion as someone who might prove worthy of his respect over time.

But before long, Melendil was forced to excuse himself from their company in order to return to the errands that his father had assigned to him.

"It is good to meet someone with such an easy smile," observed Eudorus when their new friend had disappeared into the crowds. "For that reason alone, he should be welcome here, even if we do not see him again."

The Myrmidon cast a furtive glance in Patroclus' direction, but even the pleasant surprise of their encounter had done little to improve the youth's sullen mood.

"He's only smiling because he has no idea what's going to happen tomorrow."


	19. Chapter 18

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Can you believe it? I'm not sure I do, but here indeed is the next highly-anticipated chapter. A lot happening in this one, as you'll see, even though the Greek characters once again are completely absent. I trust you'll all understand why as you digest the content. As always, many thanks to the faithful **Beloved Daughter****, Crimson Cupcake, silmarlfan1, Trollmela, Darth Feanor, & Blackeri** for their enthusiastic and encouraging reviews on the previous update! Special thanks to **Trollmela **for her help with my Numenorean character. And now I shan't keep you any longer. Read on, and (dare I say it?) keep a box of tissues handy!

**Chapter 18**

_"At last Fingon stood alone with his guard dead about him; and he fought with Gothmog, until another Balrog came behind and cast a throng of fire about him. Then Gothmog hewed him with his black axe, and a white flame sprang up from the helm of Fingon as it was cloven. Thus fell the High King of the Noldor; and they beat him into the dust with their maces, and his banner, blue and silver, they trod into the mire of his blood."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

As blood melts snow, so the dun gray clouds of night gradually dispersed before the fire of an eastern sun. It was the dawn of battle, though only two warriors would ride forth. All was somber in their chamber as Fingon and Maedhros donned the armor that was as familiar to them as a second skin, with the younger silently assisting his elder whenever he saw that help was needed.

At Maedhros' insistence, the smiths in Lindon had forged a new helmet for Fingon, fashioned with a mask such as the Dwarves had worn to their great advantage during the Nirnaeth. Although not as superb a work as Celebrimbor or the Naugrim themselves might have produced, it would still suffice in offering extra protection against the dragon's fire.

When they were nearly ready, Maedhros at last spoke into the silence. "Does this not feel familiar?"

"A bit," Fingon admitted, slowly pulling on a steel and leather gauntlet. "Of course, we didn't know I was going to die then."

"We don't know you're going to die now, either," his friend admonished sternly. "I swear, I will not allow that to happen again!"

"And how exactly are you going to prevent it? Your task will be more difficult than my own, Maitimo; please, do not swear so rashly."

Even the firstborn son of Feanor had no answer for that rebuke. Instead, he simply closed his eyes and stood motionless for a long moment. Fingon carefully approached him from behind, grieved that even the truth of his words could be such a torment to his kinsman; he did not object when the older Elf wordlessly turned and wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders, a gesture which he was happy to reciprocate. Their foreheads touched in the midst of that embrace, and Fingon suddenly had to bite down on his lip to stop the dreaded overflow of tears.

Maedhros' sad eyes were already glistening, as his one remaining hand came up to fondly caress the back of his cousin's head. His chest ached. Dear Valar, he could not go through this again! How could he possibly endure once more the loss of his dearest friend and kinsman? The grief would have killed him last time, had the dreadful Oath not driven him on to deteriorate in madness. It probably would kill him now.

Fingon could only muster a weak smile. "I will come to you when the dragon is dead. I promise."

Was it another empty promise, just like so many of the others they had made? But regardless of whether it was or not, Maedhros did not challenge him.

"And I will be looking for you," was all he said in response.

* * *

Elrond stalked the first-floor corridors that led out of the palace toward the stables. Fingon and Maedhros would have to pass by this way to retrieve their horses prior to departure, and the Half-elven feared to miss them. For he wished to speak again with Maedhros, away even from the protective eyes and ears of Glorfindel; and if he did not seize the opportunity now, he knew full well that there might not be another chance.

All along, he had secretly hoped that the two newcomers would lend their aid against the dragon and the Balrog, yet even he had been taken aback when Gil-galad had informed him that the battles were to be fought in single combat. For some reason, he had not expected the two Noldorin royals to go quite so willingly. Perhaps they did not fear death, having already faced it once before?

But then the sound of voices speaking in Quenya roused Elrond from his musings, and he rapidly stepped forward to intercept the two battle-ready Elves. He offered a short bow to Fingon, though his words were addressed to the Son of Feanor.

"May I speak with you – alone?"

Maedhros raised his copper-colored eyebrows, obviously surprised to have a private audience requested from one who could scarcely look him in the eye a week ago. Nevertheless, he consented and followed Elrond into a small, secluded chamber that was little more than a cloakroom, where the door was swiftly shut behind him.

"I shan't keep you long," Elrond began hurriedly. Despite his outward bravado, he was still feeling decidedly nervous about this confrontation. Yet it had to be done; he would feel even worse about himself in the days to come if he did not do this.

He went on to explain, "When we first heard about the dragon and the Balrog, I feared that Gil-galad would go out to fight them himself, and I can tell he was seriously considering it. Cirdan surely would have gone with him, leaving me to take charge of the kingdom if the worst should happen. And with Sauron still coming as well…"

"You feared all would be lost before the war had even begun," Maedhros supplied for him.

"Yes, exactly." Elrond's shoulders sagged tiredly. "Glorfindel would face the Balrog himself, if we asked it of him…but I could never ask him to stand against one of those demons, even for the sake of Turgon's household. Not again." His grey eyes rested on Maedhros' face, and this time he held the other's level gaze. "I know you're not doing this for him, or for me, or even for Gil-galad. But all the same – I wanted to thank you."

"Perhaps this time I can actually protect something you hold dear, rather than destroying it."

Genuinely shocked by that reply, Elrond felt his entire heart suddenly shift in regard to the Elf who stood before him. At that moment, there was no hatred in those silver eyes, and the light that fueled them was no longer quite so cold. And Elrond, finally, was not afraid. He was looking into the eyes of a peer now, of his equal rather than his captor. Doubtless the passage of so many years had also helped him to view Maedhros differently now.

For once, he no longer saw an Elf who wished him dead and cursed his very existence; instead, he understood now that Elros and himself had been to Maedhros a living reminder of his crimes, and that every sight of them had only torn open anew the scars of his guilt. Maglor had coped with the same pain by constantly seeking to draw the young twins closer to himself, as though he were again loving a pair of his own brothers; but Maedhros had shunned them for the most part. Even then, could it have been that he had kept his distance for fear of causing them more pain? To protect both them and himself?

"I do not expect you ever to understand me." Maedhros must have guessed the Peredhel's ruminations, yet he was surprisingly gentle in his rebuke. "You are a child of many kindreds, Elrond. But you were still born under the Doom of the Noldor, and our Curse shall follow you to the end of your days in these lands. You have already suffered from it much."

He reached out to the younger Elf and took hold of his chin in his left hand, so that now he could not break from their eye contact even if he wanted to. Elrond did not shy away from the touch, yet his spirit trembled when he realized just how deeply and how sharply that ancient gaze could peer down into his very soul. Even the piercing regard of their shared kinswoman, Galadriel, could not unnerve him so.

"You do great honor to all your forebears," Maedhros spoke softly again, "and I know my brother would also be proud of what you have become."

Elrond Half-elven, son of Earendil the Mariner and Elwing of Doriath, smiled.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the hallway just outside, Fingon and his son were likewise engaged in conversation, as Gil-galad had eagerly sought out his own intimate encounter soon after Maedhros had disappeared with Elrond. The present High King was not accustomed to feeling so powerless, for not since the earliest days of his childhood had he been forced to confront circumstances in which his own actions would not somehow help to determine the outcome.

"May the strength of Tulkas be with you, Adar," he said quietly. "I pray that this need not be our final parting."

Fingon smiled and embraced his only child with gentle strength. Naturally, he shared in his son's hopes; but he was certainly the better prepared of the two, if indeed this was to be their last good-bye.

"Ereinion, I let you go as a child because I truly believed that it would be best for all of us in the end, and so it has proven. Now it is you who must let me go, and not make this more difficult than it already is." He held his son's face in his hands, forcing Ereinion to meet his earnest, entreating gaze. "Trust me, my child; that is all I can ask of you in this."

Gil-galad nodded, but he did not trust himself to speak – not without unleashing the tears that already welled up threateningly behind his eyes.

But then Fingon released him and stepped away, for Maedhros had returned to them. And with the sun rapidly climbing in the sky, it was high time for the two of them to be on their way.

* * *

It was almost as if the Balrog had been expecting him. After nearly a full day of riding, Maedhros had found the ancient monster on the far side of a valley that had once been lush and green; everything was charred and ashen now, and altogether reminiscent of Anfauglith long ago. It was the perfect setting for a battle such as this, even in the twilit hours that would surely favor the Balrog as the night wore on.

Maedhros walked toward him, evenly staring down his opponent as he went; it was not a luxury he'd ever had time for in all of his previous encounters with the Valaraukar. The demon was easily more than twice his height and much, much broader. Shadowy vapors swirled around him in a theatrical accent to his every motion, and a scourge of fire was already in his hand. The sight of the latter made Maedhros' heart skip just one beat before he could force his thoughts and his memories to settle.

When he reached the middle of the valley, the Balrog himself moved forward, and the fight was on. The minion of Morgoth seemed to recognize who he was fighting, or at the very least realize that no common Elda had been sent against him. Therefore he attacked with a vengeance, fueled by the prospect of defeating a worthy opponent from the Elder Days.

Immediately Maedhros was aware of the urgency in those attacks, and he very briefly regretted that they'd not encountered more opportunities for earnest practice on the journey to Lindon. It would have done him good now. For already, after only a few brief exchanges, his body burned, as though he were battling back a fever from the outside. He could only hope Fingon was faring better against his own fiery adversary. Instead, Maedhros focused on his rage, his hatred for the abomination that dueled with him; it was truly the only way he could ignore the shadows of pain and trauma that the Balrog's mere presence carved open anew.

The one-time High Elven prince twirled his sword and braced himself for the next fray, all the while still staring into those fiery depths that were the Balrog's eyes. Staring, staring...and suddenly pulled through. He had been drawn into the Balrog's mind! And then he saw: glimpses of memories, but not his own. He saw himself, lying bound and bloodied on floors of cold black stone. He saw and heard those awful, crackling whips of fire as though he were the Balrog; but the raking and branding of pale flesh that each stroke brought, he relived in his own worst hateful memories. He had done the same so often in his cursed nightmares, only this time he could not force himself to wake.

Maedhros staggered, the Balrog having not even struck a blow. His strength suddenly sapped, he sank to his knees as though stunned by a blow to the head. The hilt of his sword hung limply in the Elf's left hand, for he no longer had the force of will even to grasp it. This Balrog had been a witness to his captivity and torment of old, and now here he was forced to again relive each humiliating moment through the eyes of one who had watched with unbridled glee.

But what came next was far worse. Just as Maedhros was certain he could endure no more, the vision changed, and a dark, chaotic battlefield spread out before him. And how very well he knew it – remembered it himself. The scene was unmistakable, even as he viewed it from the peculiar vantage point of his enemy.

The Nirnaeth.

He did not see himself this time, or even his own troops; rather, he was met at once by the familiar colors of Fingon's beleaguered host. There were not many of them left by this point, and those who remained were no longer fighting for king or country, but for their very lives. And there, not far away, Maedhros abruptly recognized Gothmog, the High Captain of Angband and the doom of so many fine Elves. Whom was he fighting now?

Maedhros' heart knew the answer long before he glimpsed it through the eyes of the Balrog: Fingon. Though the High King stood alone and exhausted after days of nonstop fighting, he still held his own against the mightiest of Valaraukar. But how long could it last? Maedhros already knew how this contest ended, yet the foreknowledge did absolutely nothing to diminish the horror and the helplessness he felt as he beheld the memory of this Balrog casting a throng of fire around his beloved friend. He heard Fingon's scream of anguish as he burned, and every fiber of his being longed to echo the cry; but even his voice would not obey him now. Then Gothmog's axe fell, lighting a flash of white flame that perished all too soon against the darkness.

And then suddenly, in the present, he heard a laugh – a cold, cruel laugh from the Balrog who had helped slay Fingon the Valiant. The demon took two large strides closer, ready to finish a battle he believed to have won without the use weapons.

_I swear, I will not allow that to happen again!_

In that instant, all pain and weakness evaporated from his limbs; and though the vision in his mind's eye had not abated in the least, Maedhros deliberately rose with a renewed sense of unshakable purpose, bringing an end to the spiteful laughter. Whereas he might still fall prey to his own internal weaknesses, he always could and always _would _find a way to fight for Fingon. Now he would turn his enemy's strategy back against him, and remind this spirit of Darkness that there was still a fire to be reckoned with in the House of Feanor.

* * *

Fingon's horse reared under him in terror, its eyes and nostrils wide with panic as another round of fire erupted from the dragon's mouth. The great winged serpent thrashed its tail as it flew past, spooking the poor creature even further so that Fingon was finally dislodged and thrown from his seat. The horse fled. It had been a fine mount from Ereinion's stables, but still a far cry from the noble steeds his kin had brought from Valinor in the Elder Days.

Now he was truly on his own. At least he had managed to hold on to his bow and quiver, and both had remained blessedly intact throughout the fall. Though it was difficult to see with this masked helmet, he was glad to have it! If only he could get a clearer shot at the beast's head, like he had done long ago to Glaurung, the Father of Worms; he would have to wait until it flew down closer again, which he knew could not be long. Sure enough, the slithering black shape against the stars turned in midair and swooped back down toward him with dizzying speed.

Fingon trained his bow on the faint gleam of moonlight that reflected off one of those yellow eyes, hoping that way to pierce the creature's brain; but he had not expected the dragon to move so quickly. The serpent's snout struck down at him even as he released his arrow. The dart sank into the flickering tongue of the great worm, and it writhed backward in sudden agony – but not before its own fangs had likewise found their target in the one-time High King's flesh. Fingon hissed in pain himself and grabbed at the fresh, gaping wound in his left arm. Only the superior craftsmanship of his old Noldorin armor had prevented the entire limb from being torn off!

However, he was already conscious of the venom, and not knowing how much longer he would be able to draw a bow in this condition, the Valiant One hastily strung another arrow and sent it hurtling at the dragon's head. This time the shaft struck true, sprouting like a feathered sapling in the baleful, lidless eye of the beast. One last wailing screech, a thunderous flailing of its mighty tail, and the worm at length lay still.

But there was fire in the prince's blood, burning and prickling as it crawled up and down his injured appendage. The fingers of his left hand were already cold and lifeless. He cast aside the modified helmet, as it was of no more use now, before struggling to tie a tourniquet one-handed around his bicep. And he couldn't help but be dimly impressed yet again at how Maedhros had managed with only one hand for so long.

Maedhros – he must find Maedhros! Eru curse that blasted horse; it would have been useful now! He and his cousin had been fighting separate battles, though there couldn't be more than a mile or two between them; yet only by the grace of the Valar would he be able to make it that far in this present state. As it had been once before back amid the towering mountain peaks of Thangorodrim, Manwe's gracious favor must have been upon him now; for his strength, while ebbing, sustained him just long enough.

As he staggered toward the valley where he and Maedhros had last parted, he arrived just in time to catch a glimpse of the Balrog fleeing eastward in the far distance. Judging by its cries, the demon had been badly wounded; and that deduction was only confirmed further by the dull, weakened flame within the Balrog's core – easy enough to see in these waning hours of the night. Maedhros must have had the victory!

Fingon the Valiant stopped to raise his eyes heavenward in inexpressible gratitude and found he suddenly possessed the energy to press on. Now all he needed was to find his cousin.

"Maitimo!" But his voice was weak, and the exertion of a single shout was enough to make his knees buckle and tremble. It appeared his poor feet would have to carry him a bit farther in order for his search to continue.

More time passed as he scoured the valley, but still he could not find Maedhros. Darkness also lingered, adding to the difficulty of his quest, but the eyes of his people had always seen perfectly fine in starlight. Was the dragon's venom affecting his vision now, too?

As he stumbled ahead, the dead, charred ground crunched in mournful agony beneath even his light feet. The sound drew his gaze downward, and in a single agonizing heartbeat, Fingon knew there was absolutely nothing amiss with his eyesight. For all too easily could he discern the warm, red blood that covered the ground and was now smeared onto his boots as well. Heart pounding behind his breastplate, Fingon followed the crimson trail as though in a daze. In all his years, he had never once thought to look for his cousin flat on the ground before; yet that was precisely where he found Maedhros now, lying in a bloody, motionless heap of singed armor and mangled flesh.

Fingon did not need to look twice. He had seen enough death in battle to know at a glance that Maedhros' wounds were hopelessly fatal. There would be no use fighting it this time. What strength remained in his legs finally gave out as the son of Fingolfin dropped numbly beside his kinsman. Was Russandol even still alive?

He was. For Maedhros opened his eyes where he lay and was at once overwhelmed with joy and relief at the sight of his friend. "You're alive," he breathed, as though that fact were the only thing that mattered even in the face of his own mortal injuries.

"The Balrog," he struggled to speak again, this time with deep regret. "The fire of my spirit was no match for his."

"It was match enough," Fingon assured him hastily, recovering on a sudden his frozen voice. "He is gone."

The older Elf's face twisted in pain. "But not destroyed. He is only escaped back under the mountains. They will meet him again, Fingon. Someday."

Speech was an agony for Maedhros, as was the simple act of trying to breathe through scorched lungs; but he could cope with the physical pain better than most. What hurt him far worse was the sight of Fingon weeping helplessly above him. He willed himself to speak again despite the pain, to offer some small comfort to this younger Elf who had once idolized him.

"This is as it should be – as it always should have been."

But a death throe temporarily cut him off then; and Fingon, with his own ears humming from the poison, was forced to lean in close to decipher the next words. "Remember me well, Findekano. I have done much evil, though I swore Evil was mine enemy. I would say 'do not weep,' but I know for you that were impossible."

In his failing strength, Maedhros reached for Fingon with his right arm, perhaps forgetting one last time that there was no hand there to connect with his friend's face. But Fingon caught the extended wrist in his own unsteady hands, and with trembling lips he kissed the precious stump he himself had inflicted long ago. Yet his gaze never left his cousin's face, where the light of those eyes was fading all too quickly.

Maedhros smiled weakly up at him, the expression finally one of pure love and affection, unadulterated by bitterness, guilt, or grief. This was indeed how it was meant to be – the only way things could be made right.

The release of one more shuddering breath, and silver eyes fell shut. They did not open again.

Fingon's involuntary sob of anguish barely escaped past his constricting throat as Maedhros' limp arm fell from his weakening grasp; he did not even have the strength now to call his cousin's name. But what bodily pain could ever compare to this, an emptiness of the soul such as he'd never known before? Not even in the Nirnaeth, when he'd watched his entire army be cut down around him like some grotesque harvest, had the grief been so all-consuming.

Fingon wept bent over like a willow with his cousin's head cradled in his hands, spilling his own warm tears onto the other's cold and lifeless cheeks. Pain of flesh and spirit assailed him in a tide of relentless waves, until he could no longer distinguish the two; and he never knew which agony first overtook his reeling senses to envelop him at last in blissful darkness.


	20. Chapter 19

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Lightning has indeed struck twice in the same place, and here is yet another timely update. Apparently, a corner of sorts has been turned, and things are really coming together now. Thank you to **Beloved Daughter****, GoldenHorde, Crimson Cupcake, silmarlfan1, Trollmela, Darth Feanor & Blackeri** for your positive feedback on the last chapter, despite its somewhat depressing content. I really do appreciate it, especially in regard to a plot twist like Maedhros' death. Here's hoping you all enjoy the next installment!

**Chapter 19**

_"But Fingon could not release the hell-wrought bond upon his wrist, nor sever it, nor draw it from the stone. Again therefore in his pain Maedhros begged that he would slay him; but Fingon cut off his hand above the wrist, and Thorondor bore them back to Mithrim…By this deed Fingon won great renown, and all the Noldor praised him."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"_

The highest battlement in the citadel bore testimony to the High King's pacing that night; and his customarily bright eyes, now red from worry and lack of sleep, were drawn ever to the north and east. Patroclus was sorely tempted to try to offer him some sort of comfort or powerless reassurance; but when even Elrond made such an attempt and was brushed impatiently away from the side of his friend and king, the young Greek knew his place was simply to let the immortal monarch be.

The wait was still unbearable for all of them, though, as persistent unease refused to lend Elf or mortal a moment's rest. The Greeks collectively passed the night in a council chamber on the lowest level of the palace, as anxious as any of their immortal comrades for some indication of how the battle had fared.

Maedhros' horse was already comfortably at home in its stall, as part of the original plan. It was far too much, certainly, to expect that the creature would remain with a strange rider in the face of a Balrog's fiery onslaught; and so Maedhros had determined to release it early on, well before the battle had actually commenced. In the first grey light of morning, however, Fingon's horse also returned to the stables, so frantic with fright that even the King's best grooms could not pacify or restrain it.

It was then at last that Gil-galad would stay behind no longer. But nor would he ride out alone, for Elrond, Cirdan, and the Greeks were all determined to accompany him on the venture. At least the lot of them together would allow a fighting chance in any contest, no matter how foolish the undertaking might be. Once Elrond had gathered a satchel full of his most prized healing supplies, it took only scant minutes for the group to be outfitted with horses, and they were soon off riding into the red light of the sun as it rose up over the hills.

_Whenever a red sun rises, blood has been spilt. _The old saying suddenly came back to haunt Achilles like a phantom, and the great warrior lamented that in his own personal experience he had so often found it to be true. He threw a sad, surreptitious glance over at his cousin who rode beside him; Patroclus would truly be devastated if both or even one of the Elven legends they had brought here were to perish a second time; in his own heart, Achilles fervently hoped that at least Fingon had survived – for Gil-galad's sake.

The High King's urgency pushed them all to a fast pace. By following the trail of the two horses that had returned, they finally located the missing Elves in a valley that had been newly ravaged by fire. Both of those they sought lay still on the charred ground; Fingon's dark head rested unfeeling atop Maedhros' armored chest.

Uttering a short cry, Gil-galad immediately leapt from his horse and rushed over to his father. Elrond's attentions, meanwhile, were first given rather to Maedhros; his expert hands checked all vital signs, although even the most amateur of healers could clearly see that there was little hope of finding a pulse in the chest of this son of Feanor.

"Elrond!" His King's sharp voice drew the Peredhel's focus away from Maedhros and over instead to Fingon. Gil-galad knelt in the ashes next to his fallen father, frantically peeling away armor and clothing from a deep wound in the older Elf's arm that was obviously poisoned. He was still breathing, but just barely.

While Elrond saw to his patient, Cirdan bent down to Maedhros' inert form and briefly laid his fingers across the blackened throat. He straightened stoically, confirming what the Half-elven had already known and what the others must have guessed readily enough.

"Maedhros is dead."

Gil-galad spared barely glance, if even that, in the direction of him who had just repelled a Balrog's attacks. Maedhros had departed from the living, a fact which could not now be altered; but Fingon's situation was an entirely different matter.

"How is he?" the King pressed, battling back the despair that longed to creep into his voice.

"We don't have long," Elrond announced grimly. "A fever from the venom has taken hold, and his strength is almost gone. I have an antidote that may help, though," he added, rapidly rummaging through the bag he had brought. "I started preparing it weeks ago, back when we first learned about the dragon."

The master healer forced Fingon's mouth open and poured a dose of the serum down his unresponsive throat, then began to bathe the infected arm with a powerful antiseptic. But for all Elrond knew, his desperate measures might have come too late. He had done all that he could here, but the former prince was in desperate need of additional care, which could only be provided in the city. Elrond and Gil-galad wasted no time then in departing from the death-ridden valley, with Fingon seated limply before his son.

The Greeks, however, were far more reluctant to just leave Maedhros where he lay; understandably, the shock of his passing still lay heavily upon most of them.

Without a word, Patroclus dropped to his knees beside what remained of the Elf he had believed, or at least hoped, to be invincible. He could scarcely recognize Maedhros now; even a large portion of his red hair, the Elf's most distinguishing feature, had been burnt away. Tears filled the youth's eyes, and not solely on account of the ashes and dust that still swirled on the breeze. But mingled with his grief, there was also a distant sense of awe and even fear over what sort of foe could have laid low one so great as this. _Balrogs. _Patroclus shuddered, noting for the first time that there was no sign in the valley of Maedhros' fiery opponent.

"What shall we do with him?" Odysseus very soberly asked of Cirdan, who had patiently remained with his guests.

The Shipwright grew sadly pensive before replying. "Fire was his first end many centuries ago, and now here it has claimed his body once again. I think it only fitting, therefore, that he should be burned rather than buried."

"We will do it," Achilles volunteered without hesitation, at which each of his mortal comrades nodded their immediate agreement; and when bearded Elf looked at him questioningly, he explained. "Such burning is the common practice in my homeland, so it will be an honor for us to grant Maedhros this rite. And I promise you, we will give him the funeral pyre worthy of a king."

Cirdan merely nodded, signaling for the Greeks to begin their labors. It was a long and difficult task, largely because so much wood in the vicinity had already been consumed by the flames of the Balrog; and through it all, the Shipwright did not assist them. But no more did he desert them. He simply watched in silence while the work was done. After all, it was not the sort of construction with which he was well familiar.

* * *

Death beckoned to him. It was a sweet call, quiet and enticing. No wonder he had not heard it before, back in the Fifth Battle; there simply had not been time then. Why could he not go closer to it now? It flirted with him, promising peaceful rest, yet remaining ever elusive and just beyond his grasp. Eventually, the alluring call grew fainter, becoming weaker as he himself waxed stronger. The fever and the venom were leaving him, being successfully driven back by a concoction of herbs and ancient lore. Soon, even the faintest whispers had been silenced altogether.

Was he again in Mandos, then? If so, then Maitimo would be here, too! But when his weary eyes opened to admit sunlight, Fingon knew at once that he was very far indeed from the Halls of the Dead.

"Adar?"

That was the voice of his son – not his friend. Why should that be cause for disappointment? He feebly attempted to sit up in bed, causing his head to spin, while only one coherent question sought utterance from his lips.

"Where is Maedhros?"

As gently as possible, Ereinion pushed him back down. "His body was burned at the site of the battle after we had brought you here. Don't you remember, Ada? He fell while dueling the Balrog."

Fingon slumped back against the multitude of pillows. "After the battle," he murmured, more to himself than to his son. "Not during."

He said no more after that, and lapsed into unconsciousness again soon thereafter.

* * *

_Dreams are often unkind. _More than once had he heard those words from Maedhros, but only in the days that followed did Fingon begin to truly understand their meaning. Precious little of his time was spent awake, and those seemingly endless hours on the path of dreams were starting to torment him. For though his body slept, his mind was active, and the ruminations were certainly _not _kind.

More than anything, his memories recalled the vivid sound of Maedhros' voice, hoarse and ragged from torment, entreating for his friend to end his suffering with a sure, swift arrow. There had always been traces of guilt for him in the act of severing his cousin's hand from his wrist, but it had always been guilt over causing his beloved kinsman more pain – never over the fact that he had withheld from Maedhros the ultimate release which he had truly craved.

_He begged me for death all the while, and I forced life upon him. At the time, I thought it mercy. Only now that I am in his place do I realize how cruel I was, and how selfish. He begged for death, I pleaded for pity. Death would have been true pity._

Yet surely Fingon himself was not in as much desperate anguish now as Maedhros must have been after the Nirnaeth. After all, had they not fulfilled the purpose for which they were sent? But even so, Fingon's brave heart wilted in a failure to comprehend: why was it that he should live while Maedhros, his dearest friend, must die?

* * *

Meanwhile, as days and eventually weeks passed by in a blur, the rest of them were experiencing a paradoxical blend of grief and joy. Grief over Maedhros' death and the pain it brought to Fingon, yet joy that Gil-galad's father had survived the battle and would now be free to spend invaluable time with his child. No longer would there be an unspoken rivalry between Ereinion and Maedhros for Fingon's loyalty and affections, an invisible struggle that all of them must have observed while it lasted.

But for Fingon himself, things did not appear to be progressing as well as his peers and caretakers would have liked. Elrond reported on more than one occasion that the recovery as a whole was taking far more time than should have been needed for an Elf of Fingon's impressive lineage.

Even Cirdan, with all his wisdom, had few words to offer by way of comfort. "Fingon's mind suffers worse than his body now. It may be some time, I fear, before his spirits and full health return."

There was a sadness in those words, too, so sharp that Patroclus literally felt as though he had been stabbed in the stomach when he heard them. For Cirdan spoke as one who truly did grieve for his friend, but who also understood that sometimes there was simply nothing to be done. Gil-galad had told him back in Troy that Cirdan was the oldest Elf left in Middle Earth. So who could be better acquainted with the sting of loss than the ancient Shipwright? How many kings and how many friends had he been parted from over the reaching course of the centuries? The sorrow of such a thought was almost sickening.

Even more poignant, though, were the morbid personal reflections that Maedhros' death and Fingon's subsequent suffering had sparked within the Greek cousins. Though both had been affected, it was the younger who finally felt the need to speak about it. Maybe Achilles could internalize all these things, but he, Patroclus, still needed someone in whom he could confide.

Achilles instantly noted his charge's dismal expression when the youth silently sat beside him one evening after they had eaten, and the dining room was otherwise deserted. Obviously the boy needed to talk, but he was not likely to divulge his thoughts without a bit of coaxing first.

"Maedhros looked as though he had been at peace when he died," he commented to begin the conversation.

"I know," Patroclus responded glumly. "But I've actually been thinking about Fingon a lot more lately."

"What about him?" his elder pressed. "Are you afraid he may take a turn for the worse and not recover after all?"

"No, I'm not worried about him physically; we both know he's mostly healed by now, anyway." The young Myrmidon drew in a shaky breath. "I just see how sad Fingon is, and…it's really not something I like to think about. But watching him grieve for Maedhros reminds me that you and I aren't going to live forever, either. Even though I know you want to."

In that moment, Achilles himself suddenly looked older, as though the weight of all that they had witnessed had emotionally drained him as well.

"Only my name, Patroclus. As long as my name outlasts me, it will be enough."

"Enough for you, maybe. But a name and a memory will be of small comfort to those who actually knew you."

Achilles knew full well what was meant by those last words, but he had absolutely no interest in pursuing the topic any further. Not tonight, at least. For he still remembered with chilling clarity those hateful days four years prior, back in Troy, when he had believed his cousin to be dead. It was not an experience he wished to repeat! And yet, one of them surely would have to endure it; because Patroclus was right – they weren't going to live forever. The sad day would inexorably come when one of them would have no choice but to say good-bye to the other, as Fingon had said farewell to Maedhros. And evidently, even the valiant son of Fingolfin was not handling that final separation particularly well.


	21. Chapter 20

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Well, it would appear I truly am on a roll here. My heartfelt gratitude as always goes out to **Beloved Daughter****, Crimson Cupcake, silmarlfan1, Trollmela, & Darth Feanor** for their reviews on the last chapter. Thanks for keeping up with me, friends! And believe it or not, there are only two more chapters after this one. Personally, I even find it hard to believe, yet that is the bittersweet situation in which we find ourselves - with the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel fast approaching. Bearing this in mind, it is my sincere hope that this next installment will not disappoint. Even though I daresay that is a distinct possibility, as you'll soon see. Enjoy!

**Chapter 20**

_"They were a race high and beautiful, the older children of the world, and among them the Eldar were as kings, who are now gone: the People of the Great Journey, the People of the Stars…They were valiant, but the history of those who returned to Middle Earth in exile was grievous; and though it was in far-off days crossed by the fate of the Fathers, their fate is not that of men. Their dominion passed long ago, and they dwell now beyond the circles of the world and do not return."_

_~ J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Lord of the Rings"_

Unfortunately, there was little improvement of Fingon's emotional condition in the days that followed. Although physically healed thanks to Elrond's expert care, the Noldorin prince had essentially shut himself away from his companions, and would not speak willingly to anyone.

"Perhaps I can raise his spirits," Gil-galad at length resolved. He went up to his father's rooms and spent a fair amount of time there in his company. But when the King returned, it was with troubled eyes and a downcast expression that he reported back to his comrades.

"When I entered, I could tell he was glad to see me; and as we spoke, I knew that he still loved me as his son…but his joy did not return. Not like I had hoped." The monarch turned to his long-time guardian and advisor. "He wants to see you, Cirdan."

The Shipwright bowed to his sovereign, yet he delayed his visit until the following day. When he entered the solemn chamber, Fingon was seated by a window with his back to the door.

"Still no smile for me, my friend?"

Fingon looked up sharply, as though even Fingolfin's valiant firstborn had been startled by the greeting. He attempted to offer a weak smile, but it was short-lived.

"Nay, forgive me. I was only thinking."

"You seem to be doing a lot of that lately. Ereinion told me you wished to speak with me. How might I be of service to you?"

Fingon sighed wearily from where he sat watching the white crests of ocean waves and pleaded, "Will you build me a ship, Cirdan? I no longer have any desire for these shores."

Although undeniably saddened, Cirdan did not appear at all surprised by the request. In fact, judging from the dim, hollow look in his old friend's eye, this turn of events was almost to be expected.

"I certainly would not deprive you of it, if that is truly what you wish. I will even see to it that all is made ready in time for you to sail before winter storms make the crossing inadvisable."

"Thank you, _mellon-nin_," the younger Elf acknowledged softly.

Cirdan stepped closer, until he was standing only a short distance behind Fingon's chair. "I saw Maedhros only once after your death in the Fifth Battle, but he was not the same Elf then as when he arrived here this time in your company. He truly lived only whilst you lived; and without you, he was but a ghost, a guilt-ridden phantom of the lordly prince he once was. And now I fear the same might be said of you, friend Fingon. As much as it grieves me to see you so, I know it grieves your son far worse."

Fingon's heart clenched. "I know. I can see how desperately he wants me to stay…but I also realize that he does not _need _me to stay. No doubt I have you to thank for that, my friend – the Shipwright who raised a King."

Cirdan nodded sagely, pausing a moment to consider his response. "Ereinion is indeed a very wise young ruler; that he still seeks my counsel after all these years is a testament of that."

But the Telerin lord then grew quiet as Fingon abruptly rose and moved to stand before a great map of Middle Earth that covered much of the room's northern wall.

"So much has changed," he murmured, both in awe and lingering sorrow.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Cirdan offered gently. "Even the matter of the earth itself was subject to the purging of Morgoth's evil."

"That purging is not yet complete. Your continuing struggles here testify to that in plenty."

"No, you're right, it is not. For his malice lies deep within the whole of Arda, and his shadow shall ever fall upon us all, until the day when the earth entire perishes and is made anew."

"And yet that day shall come." Fingon had spoken firmly; but when he looked at Cirdan, his eyes still questioned the ancient shipwright.

"Aye. It shall come indeed, even as the day when the voice of Feanor and the battle cry of your own father are heard once more. And you shall play your own part then, as well."

Fingon pursed his lips into a painfully thin line. "Yes…but I have already played my part here, I think. For in sorrow I foresee that even the beauty of my son's realm here will not endure any more than the strength of Hithlum did. I did not understand him before, Cirdan, but now I know that Maglor was right: this is not our world. Not anymore."

If Cirdan found the mention of Maglor suspicious, he did not speak of it.

* * *

"I must leave, Ereinion."

Gil-galad was crestfallen, veritably disbelieving, as that announcement landed like an anchor upon his heart. Of all the things that he might have expected to hear from his father in this meeting, a decision to voluntarily depart was not among them! Though his mind reeled, he forced himself to speak.

"But why? Why would you do such a thing when it is not necessary? You are alive, Ada, and you know that you are welcome here! This shall be your home now, with many who still love you."

Fingon smiled wanly. "No, my child, I am afraid it cannot be. This is your time, and these fair lands belong to you alone. Beleriand is no more, and the First Age long since past. My only true home lies in the West, and so thither must I go. I hope that one day you might follow me there, to the rest and beauty of the Blessed Realm your youth has never known."

"Follow you?" Gil-galad's fair voice was strained almost beyond recognition by bitterness and despair. "To follow you there is to follow Maedhros; for it is true that you have always done so, even at the expense of others – including your own son. And now you would follow after him even in death! You already threw your life away once following him. Must it always be so, Ada?"

Fingon's melancholy smile assumed a gentler edge. "Oh, Ereinion. You speak only of what you have heard from others – not of what you truly know yourself. I do follow my cousin, in any and all things; and in a kinder reality, you might have understood why."

"But what about Sauron?" the younger royal entreated. "His coming has not been daunted in the least by your victory, and there is still a war to be fought here. Will the loss of your kinsman likewise deprive you of your purpose?"

"That purpose has already been accomplished, _ion-nin_. There is indeed a war to be fought here, and I rejoice that my people will have such a wise and generous ruler to lead them. But if I were to remain much longer, I fear it would only result in trouble for you over time. For you, Ereinion Gil-galad, must be High King without question in the days to come, and there may be many who would not think it fitting that the father should long be subject to his son. The Eldar are _your_ people to protect now; my time to shepherd them has already come and gone. "

Finally the tears rose, silent and unstoppable. Gil-galad was sounding rather desperate now, albeit forthright. "So it is done, then – and Maedhros truly has taken the spirit of my father with him to the Halls of Mandos."

"Not in the way you may think, my child," Fingon corrected sternly, "but his death now has revealed to me more of the Curse than I ever understood before. Ereinion, so many of those fateful words have come to pass, resulting in griefs beyond measure. Can we truly hope to avert the spoken doom that our race shall diminish, as well? I can see it has already begun, and Cirdan himself will not deny it if you ask him."

"It is true Cirdan does not share with me all that Ulmo has revealed to him," Gil-galad admitted grudgingly. In this instance, the son truly was much younger than his father.

When there were no more words spoken from his son, Fingon stepped closer, laying both hands gently yet firmly on those slumped shoulders. His voice softened. "Long ago, I entrusted you to Cirdan; and though it has often grieved me, not once have I regretted that decision. You have done well with him to guide you…and I do believe it will continue so."

Only one word escaped the High King's lips; it was all he could think, all he could speak. "Stay. Please, Ada – stay." It was a struggle greater than any he'd yet known, just to meet his father's unyielding eyes; and those words next spoken were more acutely painful to him than any wound weapons might give.

"I cannot, Ereinion. Whatever destiny may lie ahead for you, you must face it without me."

* * *

The news was difficult enough for all of them to absorb. Patroclus could only imagine how deeply Fingon's decision had hurt his son. Being an orphan himself, the young Greek could relate in part to the High King's pain; but in no way could he empathize with being forced to say good-bye to a father who had deliberately chosen to leave.

"As strange as this may sound, I do trust Fingon's judgment," Odysseus confessed to his friends after they had learned of this latest development. "Perhaps he senses that his work here is done, and now with Maedhros gone, there is little motivation for him to stay."

"Whatever his reasoning may be, he is not likely to change his mind," Achilles interjected his opinion. "But what is there in the West for him to sail to? Surely he does not mean to go to Numenor, where Melendil was from."

Patroclus swallowed thickly, exchanging quick glances with Odysseus. They'd managed to conceal the existence of Valinor from his cousin for four years, but there seemed no way to evade the revelation now.

"Cousin, I think that in the far West there is a place called Valinor – the Undying Lands."

That got Achilles' attention. "The Undying Lands?" he echoed, gazing at his kinsman in wide-eyed wonder. "How long have you known about this, Patroclus?"

"I remember Cirdan mentioning it when I was here last time, but I didn't ask him about it. I did not feel it would have been appropriate."

Not surprisingly, Achilles himself had no such reservations; so at his urging, they sought out Cirdan to consult him on the matter. The Shipwright's bushy silver eyebrows rose when he heard the nature of their inquiry, but in light of the present circumstances, he was willing enough to enlighten them.

"Valinor does indeed lie beyond the Sea far west of these lands," he confirmed.

"And that's why you have dedicated yourself to the building of ships?" surmised Eudorus.

"Aye." The venerable Elf smiled, slowly nodding his approval of those words. "For many years, the Undying Lands were hidden from us; but at the end of the First Age, that ban was lifted, and a great many of my people went to dwell there – some for the first time, others for a second."

"And are you certain that only Elves may go there?"

Cirdan met the intense blue eyes of the legendary Myrmidon commander and guessed his thoughts at once. "Only those born immortal may dwell in Undying Lands. Even if you were permitted to go there, Achilles, your life would not be extended beyond its appointed years. You would still die there, even as you must eventually die here."

Duly chastised, the tawny Greek merely dropped his gaze without another word, opening up a silence into which Odysseus could pose his next query.

"You mentioned that many Elves left at the end of the First Age, Cirdan. Do others still make the westward journey nowadays?"

"The temptation to flee from the darkness of Middle Earth is always great," Cirdan admitted gravely. "As of now, my people as a whole are reluctant to request that a ship be built for them, as Fingon has done. Yet whenever one does set sail, it is never lacking in passengers; and I'm certain this time will be no different."


	22. Chapter 21

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **One more down, and only one more to go. It's been quite a ride, hasn't it? Many thanks to everyone who's stuck with me through the ups and downs, and additional gratitude to **Crimson Cupcake, silmarlfan1, Blackeri & Darth Feanor** for reviewing! I know it's a sad thing to send Fingon away like this, but I truly do believe he'll ultimately be happier this way. This chapter here is a bit on the short side, but I strongly suspect the next one will atone for it. Enjoy, everyone, and I'll see you at the end!

**Chapter 21**

_"Lay down your sweet and weary head. Night is falling; you have come to journey's end._

_Sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before. They are calling from across a distant shore._

_Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see – all of your fears will pass away. Safe in my arms, you're only sleeping._

_Hope fades into the world of night – through shadows falling, out of memory and time._

_Don't say we have come now to the end. White shores are calling; you and I will meet again. And you'll be here in my arms – just sleeping._

_What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the Sea a pale moon rises. The ships have come to carry you home. And all will turn to silver glass; a light on the water. Grey ships pass into the West…"_

_~ Lyrics from "Into the West" performed by Annie Lennox_

Light from a pink sunrise seeped into view from behind cracks in the heavy clouds. The dawn announced Fingon's departure, and much like Cirdan had predicted, there were about twenty other Elves who would be joining the son of Fingolfin in his escape westward.

Gil-galad was understandably loath to make the journey to the Grey Havens where he would have to say good-bye to his father for the second time. There had been tension between them since Fingon had first made his decision known, for Ereinion still could scarcely believe that he was going to be purposefully orphaned twice by the father he most loved. Perhaps in the days leading up to the departure he had still harbored some semblance of hope that Fingon would change his mind before it was too late.

But it was not to be, and against his will, Gil-galad found himself standing in the morning mists beside the pristine white vessel that would carry his father far away.

"You really are leaving, then?" The Elven King truly did not mean to sound as though he were complaining like a petulant child, yet it would not have surprised him if that was how his elder perceived it.

Sensing his son's reluctance to come near, Fingon embraced him rather stiffly and whispered into his ear as he held him. "Remember my words to you earlier, Ereinion. For whether by your choice or otherwise, you _will _follow us one day."

All severity fled from his countenance then, replaced by the natural warmth of a father bidding his only son farewell. Was it made worse, or easier, by the fact that he had already done so once before?

"And either way you come, you will be welcomed by those who love you."

Gil-galad's stonily impassive face finally crumbled, and he was able to give his father a fitting, heart-felt farewell.

One last time, Fingon took his child's face in his hands, memorizing every detail and wishing above all that he could somehow make Ereinion understand.

"Live well, my son," he commissioned earnestly, "and weep no more for Findekano."

As soon as the ship had left the harbor, Gil-galad retreated to a high watchtower in the Grey Havens to observe its departure for as long as possible. Tears brimmed over his eyelids, momentarily obscuring his precious vision and trailing down cold cheeks. He stayed there long after the white swan vessel had disappeared, just staring off into the West.

In no small irony, it reminded him of the days when Fingon himself had sat for hours in his fortress at Hithlum, turning his sorrowful eyes ever northward to watch for the coming of his own father. But in both cases, then and now, there would be no victorious return.

Elrond sought him out at sunset, joining him by the large window. They stood in silence for a time, before the Peredhel finally spoke his thoughts.

"Do you truly hate Maedhros now, my lord?"

The High King's face remained unreadable. "I wish I could. Don't you?"

Elrond grew reflective, his eyes dropping to the stone floor. "I remember fearing him greatly at times, but I never hated him. In the end, I pitied him – him and Maglor both."

But Gil-galad perceived something deeper there, and at last he turned to face his kinsman directly. "Do you actually miss them, Elrond? After all these years and everything that happened?"

The Peredhel hesitated, appearing almost guilty, and then confessed, "I would very much like to see Maglor again, if he is still alive somewhere. Just one last time, before I can no longer call these eastern lands my home. But alas, I do not foresee another such reunion for myself; and so I must be content with this."

Silence reigned after that as the two friends watched the sun finally sink beyond the horizon's watery edge, a blazing beacon that would guide Fingon and his companions back to their ancestral home.

* * *

The night after Fingon's departure, Achilles lay in bed wide awake. His blue eyes stared aimlessly into the darkness, seeing nothing. He told himself that it was so he could think on all that had transpired, yet his mind simply refused to settle on any one subject. But apparently he was not the only one restless in his sleep that night; for suddenly he heard the door to his room open and close, followed by long strides and soft, yet audible, footfalls. Patroclus.

He felt the bed give beside him.

"You haven't slept with me since the last time we were here."

"I know. And that was for _your _sake back then; I was already far too old."

Achilles grinned unseen at Patroclus' predictable banter. From their voices, he could tell that they were both lying back to back, so that neither could see the other.

"And what brings you to me this time, little cousin?"

The boy sighed wistfully. "Achilles, I…I don't want to leave. Not again."

Achilles felt his heart surge, suddenly pounding in his ears; he had to force serenity and indifference into his next words. "Why not?"

Patroclus wrestled with how to best articulate his thoughts. "Because when we were home – in Greece – these past four years, not a day went by that I did not think fondly of this place. And now that we're here with Gil-galad again, I…" his voice faltered a moment. "I haven't thought about Greece once, cousin. Not unless it was to think of how much I dread going back there."

The elder warrior closed his eyes as he listened, rent in two by warring desires. Did he dare tell Patroclus that he had often felt the same since their arrival in Lindon?

"What's to prevent you from staying, then?" he prodded.

There was a pause. "The others, mostly."

"Yes. Odysseus has his family back in Ithaca. I know he loves this land dearly and can probably appreciate it better than the rest of us; but he does not love it so dearly as he loves his son, nor appreciate it as he does his wife. He will indeed be wanting to return home, though it is hardly a journey he could make by himself."

"And Eudorus?"

Achilles allowed himself another private smile. "Eudorus will stay if we do, although I could hardly command it of him. His loyalty is to me, but his heart, I think, remains in Phthia."

"And you, cousin?" Patroclus finally turned over. "What would you think about staying here?"

Achilles rolled over in turn to face his kinsman, who searched his tired face with the eyes of one who knew him so very well. "I would never want to remain here without you, cousin. But I would never leave without you, either."

"So in other words, nothing has been decided in all of this?"

"No, I suppose not." Achilles had meant it as a joke of sorts, to play on Patroclus' obvious exasperation; but there was no ignoring the grain of seriousness and truth that had been planted in his statement. Silence then lay between them for a while, as neither one appeared eager or even willing to speak again.

"You might as well stay if you're comfortable," the elder finally suggested into the stillness. "After all, I'm sure it will be another cold night."

Patroclus briefly nodded his acceptance, while also offering a little smile of gratitude. Although sleep was really no more appealing to either of them at that moment than it had been earlier in the evening, exhaustion eventually exacted its payment in the form of heavily eyelids and steady breathing.

But secretly, both cousins were drawing solace from the other's close proximity; because sometimes, especially in heavy circumstances such as these, it was just good not to be alone.

* * *

Early the next morning, Achilles wandered through the elegant arched corridors of the palace. Now more than ever as he walked, he took note of how even the minutest elements of the architecture here were so finely and elaborately detailed. Achilles had never considered himself to possess a particularly keen eye for beauty, but surely this, of all things, was beautiful.

The warrior let out a weary sigh. His sleep had been restless, even with Patroclus present, and so Achilles had left his cousin lying there just after the break of dawn. For he still could not reconcile within himself his desire to remain in Lindon and the more reasonable, responsible task of returning home to Phthia. He did still have a small kingdom and a people to call his own there, after all, and they had been without his protection long enough.

His meanderings eventually led him back to Gil-galad's study, where the Elf King was already dressed and hard at work bent over his desk. He did not look as though he had gotten much rest that night, either. Achilles softly cleared his throat to announce his presence, and Gil-galad raised his dark head.

"Good morning, my lord," the Greek greeted. "May I speak with you?"

A silent nod granted him permission to enter, and Achilles did so, shutting the door behind him as he came.

"I know you and I have already had this conversation once before," he began, "but I'm wondering if perhaps things are different now."

"You mean in regards to your staying here permanently?" Gil-galad surmised. "I do not see that things have changed so greatly since you were last here."

"But you cannot deny that you will need assistance in the days ahead – at least as much help as can be offered."

"You have already provided all the help that is required."

Achilles balked at the unexpected curtness of the Elf's last words, hearing a harshness there that took him truly by surprise.

But Gil-galad sighed suddenly, as though sensing his guest's discomfort. "Forgive me, Achilles. I have no quarrel with you, but these past few weeks have been…trying, to say the least."

The Greek warrior came a few steps closer, wholly unused to seeing such displays of emotion on the part of the Elven monarch. "I understand, my lord, and I apologize if it sounds as though I doubt you. For believe me, there is no one I hold in higher esteem than you – not even my own gods. I only mean to say that it does not seem right that my companions and I should return to peace in our own lands while your people are on the verge of a devastating war. What sort of friends would we be if we left now?"

"You would be the sort of friends who are wise enough to respect another friend's wishes," Gil-galad retorted without hesitation. "Your devotion, Achilles, is truly touching, but it is not my wish that you spend the remainder of your life here waiting for a day that you may never see. It would be different if the battles had already begun in earnest, or if your lands were located closer to my own. But as you well know, neither of these things are true in your case."

The High King then rose and moved around the desk to stand beside his early visitor. "Suppose our war is only another twenty years in coming – how old will you be then? Certainly not in the prime of life as you enjoy it now. Although Patroclus, perhaps, may be at his best then."

"Perhaps. But even he would be starting to age at that point." Achilles sighed deeply in his turn, beginning to feel that his defeat in this argument was inevitable. "Do you really believe it will be another twenty years, my lord?"

"I hope not. Twenty years would be too short, for there remains much work yet to be done, ere we are ready for a war of such magnitude as I foresee. You are very welcome to stay, if you so choose. I could hardly forbid it, after all you've done for us, but I would not have you stay out of a sense of obligation. For I personally am indebted to you more than you will ever know – for returning my father to me when I had not seen him since I was ten years old. Twice over now you have more than proven yourselves worthy of our friendship, and you will long be remembered among us as Achilles, the friend of Gil-galad. But nevertheless, the choice is yours: to leave or to remain."

"That is not an easy choice to make."

"Others have made it with less deliberation than you show now." Ereinion successfully subdued the bitterness that had edged its way back into his voice, but not without great difficulty. "Yet if it is any consolation to you, do remember that the Eldar still have other friends among mortal Men who may someday come to our aid in a time of need, and so redeem the nobility of all mankind."

Immediately Achilles thought of Melendil and the men from Numenor, and for the first time that morning, he allowed himself to smile.


	23. Chapter 22

**Summary: **Achilles regards his honor as sacred, but he is not the first to do so. Sequel to "Weakness" and "Strength." Features the same major Greek and Elven characters, plus two new faces. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sorry, I still don't own them, and I still am not making any money off of them. But that's okay – I love them to death anyway.

**Author's Note: **Well, my friends, we have truly reached the end of "Honor." It is indeed a bittersweet moment for this author, and I confess I actually teared up once or twice while proof-reading this last installment, just struck hard by the realization that my pet project of nearly three years has reached its conclusion. I can't say thank you enough to all the readers who were loyal and patient enough to stick with me through all the ups and downs of this epic literary journey! My sincere hope is that you all have enjoyed it as much as I have. In regards to the previous posting, many thanks for the thoughtful comments of **Crimson Cupcake, silmarlfan1, Redeemed Spirit of Fire, & Trollmela**, who also pushed us past the prodigious mark of 100 reviews! Lastly, I feel compelled to mention that there is a much-needed scene in this chapter between Patroclus and Gil-galad, which has been a work-in-progress for over two years and is perhaps my favorite moment in this entire crossover trilogy. More than once the anticipation of sharing it with all of you has served as an inspiriation for me in earlier chapters, and I trust it won't disappoint. So enjoy for the last time, everyone, and I hope that things here shall be concluded to your satisfaction. Love to you all!

**Chapter 22**

_"They say there's a place where dreams have all gone._

_They never said where, but I think I know._

_It's miles through the night, just over the dawn,_

_On the road that will take me home._

_I know in my bones I've been here before._

_The ground here's the same, though the land's been torn._

_I've a long way to go, the stars tell me so,_

_On this road that will take me home."_

_~ Lyrics from "Going Home" by Mary Fahl_

_It's just a dream. It's just a dream. It's just a dream. _

But no dream, even those born of fevered illness, had ever seemed so real – like reliving a personal memory. Maedhros' unthinkable death continued to haunt him, this time taking shape in a nightmare he could not forget no matter how hard he tried. Good gods, was this what foresight was like? Patroclus could only pray it was not so.

He had been witness to a battle in which Fingon, utterly alone, had fought against a great shadow rising up out of the East. Fingon himself had been the lone source of light as the darkness slowly crept forward, swallowing up every rock and tree in its path. The Elven prince had stood like a white tower, mighty and unshakable; but it was not enough, and the Shadow at last had overcome the Hero.

Yet not until the very end, when the White Warrior was vanquished, did Patroclus realize it had not been Fingon at all – but Gil-galad. That had been the very worst by far, those miserable moments just prior to waking. Even now he could not escape the cold hand of horror that gripped him to his very soul. His heart still raced, and his mind's eye would not release the wretched vision.

_It's just a dream. It's just a dream,_ he tried again to convince himself. But even that certain, inner logic was of little comfort, and doubt poisoned his turbulent thoughts. For if even Fingon and Maedhros were not invincible against servants of the Enemy, then surely Gil-galad himself could not be as immune to death in battle as Patroclus had once happily, and innocently, believed. This was a far bigger contest, fought by Powers so great they were beyond his mortal comprehension. And this whole return journey to Lindon…how had it all gone so wrong so very quickly?

Reluctant to disturb his cousin's rest again in so short a time, the young Myrmidon decided instead to calm his mind by going for a long, slow walk around the palace. It did feel good to be up and moving, yet his melancholy reflections would not allow his spirit to be comforted.

It was most unsettling to realize that he was more of a prisoner to this place now, in the unspoken depths of his own heart, than when he had been first brought here as a casualty of war four years ago. It had been so much easier to leave behind Greece – his own homeland – back on the day when Gil-galad had laid that fateful ultimatum out before him. Perhaps he still had not fully accepted the reversal of that decision.

But, gods, why did so much of his short life seem to be spent _missing_ people? He still missed his parents, and no doubt he always would. Then there had been those few wretched months of missing Achilles, his dear cousin, when he mistakenly thought he'd been abandoned by his guardian. And now here he was already missing Gil-galad. Again. Their second time together had been a blessing far beyond anything he might have wished for…but it did nothing to ease the heartache of their looming separation. Already that empty ache of longing consumed him deep from within, bringing a lump to his throat and a burning prickle of tears to his eyes.

But just then, a wisp of movement caught the youth's eye, and he turned his head see none other than Gil-galad himself standing only a short distance away. The Elf was alone and most assuredly had not spent any time in bed that night, either. His lips smiled when he saw the boy, but those red-rimmed eyes were sad.

Sorrow and even guilt weighed on Patroclus' tender heart at the sight of his friend, pulling him down on both knees in a posture of full obeisance to the High King of the Eldar. He simply did not know what else to do. No words could have adequately expressed his surprise, then, when Gil-galad joined him in his uncomfortable position on the floor. And no words were spoken as the Elf at once drew him into a tight embrace, and they both wept freely; but by no means were these the first tears that either grieving party had shed that night.

Gil-galad was still mourning the second loss of his father, certainly, but there was also pure, unadulterated jealousy involved. How could Maedhros – a Kinslayer! – possibly command more of his father's love than he himself did? It was a childish sentiment, to be sure, but that did not make it any less true.

"I've missed you." His face pressed into the velvet of a royal robe, Patroclus was fully aware of how juvenile he must have sounded, but he didn't care. The statement was true, and it needed to be said. He had missed his friend while back in Greece, and even missed him now here in Lindon. With all the other more urgent happenings, they had not seen much of each other since the Greeks' arrival. The last time he'd cried against Gil-galad's shoulder like this, it had been with grief over losing Achilles; now he wept for the Elf King himself.

"Please, don't make us leave again." He already knew the inevitable answer, but that would not deter him from fighting it for as long as possible.

"I cannot make you, child, but…" Truth be told, Gil-galad had missed him, too; and he did not want to watch another one he loved sail out of his life forever. But in the end, it would be better. Better for Patroclus. He slowly pulled away from their embrace just enough so they could see each other's faces, their noses almost touching.

"Patroclus, your home is back in Greece; your _life_ is in Greece, with your own people – not here, in a land of immortals ever on the brink of war."

But the youth shook his head miserably, finally giving voice to his guilt. "I'm so sorry for all of this; it would have been better if we'd never brought them here."

Gil-galad's heart wrenched. "No, child, this is as it was meant to be. Besides, Maedhros and my father would have found their way to Lindon with or without your aid. Their destinies would not have allowed for anything less. And so I count it a blessing that at least this way, against all hope, you and I were able to see each other again."

Against his will, Patroclus' tears sprung up anew at the infinite warmth in the Elf's words. Gentle thumbs came up to brush away the droplets, and Patroclus wondered suddenly at the softness of that skin. Did the hands of an Elven warrior not acquire the same rough calluses as those of mortals like his cousin? Or did it simply take a much longer time?

But the thought was fleeting, even as Gil-galad's hands remained cupped around his neck, still cradling his face so that he could not turn away to hide his grief. It hurt also to suddenly realize that he would never know Gil-galad's fate in the coming wars. Patroclus knew so little of the dangers that lay ahead of the Elves, and he could not help fearing for his great friend. If the Elven King were to be slain even five hundred years from now, it would be reason enough to grieve at that very moment. But how long could one possibly live the perilous life a soldier without eventually meeting Death?

Gil-galad saw deep, genuine sorrow in Patroclus' eyes and recognized it as how he himself had felt when bidding farewell to his parents for the last time in Hithlum, long ago. Perhaps his own father had not felt so very different back then as he did right now, doing what must be done for the sake of those he loved.

"Child, you must go – return to Greece with your friends, your kin. Even Achilles understands now that this is how things must be."

"But what about you? What about everything that's happening here?"

"Whatever my fate may be, Patroclus, I cannot escape it. I must face it bravely, even as my grandfather and my great-grandfather did. And there are none who might save me from it – not you, not your cousin. Your lives are too short, and therefore too precious, to spend them worrying over me."

Patroclus forced himself to nod in acquiescence. He still didn't like it, but there seemed to be no alternative. Gil-galad was right, of course; for as much as Patroclus loved him and loved these fair lands, Lindon simply was not his home and never could be. Even as he had known deep in his heart four years ago, he would always be somewhat out of place here.

Furthermore, he had noticed that Achilles had seemed a good deal more at peace these past few days, resonating the imperturbable calm of a man who had already made his choice and come to terms with it. And although it may have taken him much longer, Patroclus knew that he had ultimately arrived at the same conclusion.

* * *

As none of the Greeks were in a great hurry to leave, they unanimously decided to wait for the favorable sailing conditions of early summer before giving any thought to their departure.

The northern winter of Lindon was truly a novelty for Patroclus, for he had never encountered snow in such quantities before. It appeared to him that everything was coated with a sheet of brilliant diamonds sparkling in the sunlight. He even got to experience his first snowfall!

Eudorus observed his young friend with unmasked amusement. "You've really never seen snow before?"

Patroclus gazed up at the falling flakes in wonder, blinking away the drops that landed and melted on his eyelashes. "Only up on the mountains, from a distance. Never like this."

He was also treated to many views of impossibly bright stars on those wintry nights; and to his eyes, the moon had never appeared so big or so vibrant as it did then, set in a cold, clear sky. But by the end of winter, Patroclus had seen enough, and he rejoiced with the arrival of warmer weather.

As before, Odysseus was content to pass much of his spare time with maps and manuscripts in the libraries, while Achilles and Eudorus were most often found together in the armories and practice yards. Though they both were continually fascinated by the intricate beauty and efficiency of the weaponry, it was Achilles who took a far greater interest in its actual use. After all, there had probably never been, and never would be, another mortal Man who possessed more hope of imitating the Elvish style of fighting than Achilles, the son of Peleus and divine Thetis.

Fate's intervention had prevented Patroclus from getting very far in his Elvish lessons with Gil-galad four years ago, yet he remembered enough that certain words and phrases were still comprehensible to him. Before long, he even found a new and willing teacher in a certain Elf named Erestor, a close friend of Elrond and Glorfindel.

Also this time, unlike the last, Patroclus took much more notice of the unparalleled beauty of the Elven women. Of course, it was impossible to guess their ages, but every single one of them looked as though they were in a prime of life that no span of years could touch. And he wondered in his heart if it had ever happened that a child of mortal Men was wedded to a daughter of Elven kind – and what would happen to both parties if ever it should come to pass.

Yet he knew it was foolish to entertain any such hopes himself. For he was only Patroclus, son of Menoetius and cousin of Achilles, and the blessing of an immortal hand could only be bound for one far greater. His uncle Peleus had been honored with a bride of an ageless race, but that had been an arranged marriage. It wasn't as though he had earned the union by first winning her love and consent. Such a man who could, he thought, would indeed be a mortal worthy of remembrance throughout the ages.

* * *

In due time, as the final preparations for their departure were being made, Gil-galad approached Achilles with a casual remark. "Cirdan has suggested that in the future we keep one ship set aside here specifically for your use, should you again require transportation home from our country."

Achilles smiled, but the light of it failed to reach his eyes as he replied, "Then I must thank Cirdan for his generosity…but I very much doubt that this scene shall ever repeat itself again." His eyes stung suddenly, and he found it difficult to swallow around the formation of his next words. "This truly is good-bye for us, my lord."

Gil-galad only nodded gravely, and watched as the fearsome Lion of the Myrmidons dropped to one knee before his feet. When they had done this four years ago, the Elven King had bowed in turn; this time he chose not to. For gone now was the obligation to formality, and Gil-galad opted instead for the more personal gesture of laying his hand on Achilles' head. Yet he said no more.

When the actual moment of their departure arrived, Eudorus' farewell consisted of all the formalities a common soldier could muster, while Odysseus somehow managed to part from their host with a broad smile on his bearded, aging face. But the same could not be said of Patroclus.

The young Greek's chest was tight, so tight he could barely breathe. He did _not_ want to go through this again! How could he bear it, even if he knew it would be best for all of them? It would not do for him to weep here again like a mere child…and yet he found he could not prevent it.

Gil-galad favored him with a sad and gentle smile. "I see your tears, child, and I regret that there cannot be a happier ending to this tale. But even so, I pray that you would live your life with joy… and weep no more for Ereinion."

The Elf's throat constricted suddenly, so that he could not have said more even if he wished it. Nor did Patroclus himself have anything to add, as even a sad and simple 'good-bye' would not be vocalized; all that needed to be heard between them had already been said.

After one last embrace that was far too short, the High King and his former captive parted for the final time. Patroclus boarded the ship with his countrymen, and sails were raised to catch the wind that would drive them farther and farther away from the lands and the faces they'd come to love.

Achilles was first to break the heavy silence on board their vessel. "This never gets any easier," he admitted with a sigh. "I hate leaving again."

"I hate saying good-bye again," his kinsman added despondently.

But Odysseus actually smiled at his friends and remarked fondly, "I hope you have children someday, Patroclus. You'll have the most incredible stories to pass on to them."

His comment did manage to make Patroclus smile, if only for a moment; the younger Greek had never thought of it that way before.

They watched the harbor until the tall figure of Gil-galad disappeared against the shoreline. The Elf King had worn his brightest armor for the farewell, perhaps to make himself visible from a distance for as long as possible, even to mortal sight. But ere long, he too had vanished altogether.

Patroclus released a long, trembling sigh. Now that the Grey Havens were already falling away behind them, the parting no longer seemed so unbearable. Because even though the separation this time was infinitely more final, there was a greater peace about it. After all, they'd already been granted their second adventure to Lindon…and surely there would not be a third. Perhaps this time he could truly leave looking forward, rather than back into a past that was never meant to be his future.

Slowly, deliberately, Patroclus turned away from the stern of their ship and went to join his silent cousin at the prow. They were both facing south now – toward Greece.

Toward the land that would forever be their home.

_The End_

(And I'm pretty sure it's for real this time!)

**In Conclusion:**

_"The Perilous Realm is perilous. Those who have travelled to it...know they will not be allowed to stay there, but when they come back, they are overwhelmed by a sense of loss. As Sam Gamgee says of Galadriel, the inhabitants of Faerie may mean no harm, but they are still dangerous for ordinary mortals. Those who encounter them may never be the same again…"_

_~ Tom Shippey, in his Introduction to "Tales from the Perilous Realm" by J.R.R. Tolkien _

**Author's End Note: **And so, at the end of the day, this crossover series concludes without having drastically altered the canon of Tolkien. Because even though bringing Fingon and Maedhros back from the dead was a huge step, the rest of Middle Earth's history is now free to play out exactly as we already know and love it. Yes, there was some definite déjà vu here at the ending, but I made sure to include some very critical differences also, if one would only take the time to look for them. Thank you so much for reading! ~ Halo


End file.
